"We have to listen. Now." Diane's already pulling one out, checking the label. 1994. Their dad would've been... what, forty?
"Diane, wait—" Mara starts, but Diane's moving toward the living room. She's always been like this. The one who can't help herself.
The tape machine still works. Surprising. The tape crackles, then their father's voice fills the room. Older than they remember it. Softer.
"I need to tell you things I can't say out loud," he says. "Not while I'm alive."
And then he starts talking.
The voice on the tape gets quieter. Almost like he's checking over his shoulder.
"There's something I did that could hurt this family," he says. "I'm not ready to tell you yet. But you need to know it exists. There's a box in the study. Under the—"
The tape pops and cuts off.