Chapter 9: The Recording

I hung up and sat very still on the bench.

"He swore to it," I said. "He stood in a police station and swore I wasn't home."

"Were you?"

"I was in the kitchen all night. I was on the laptop."

"Doing what?"

"Thursday." I stopped. "Thursday was the childbirth class."

Quinn waited.

"It's a video class, on Thursday nights."

"The woman who runs it is a midwife, and she makes everyone keep their camera on."

"For how long?"

"Seven until nine-fifteen. And she records every session for people who miss it."

I had stopped thinking of that Thursday as a real night. It was only the night before the voicemail.

"Call her," Quinn said.

"It's nine o'clock."

"Call her."

The midwife answered on the second ring. She had a low, sleepy voice, and a cat was yowling behind her.

I told her what I needed in four sentences.

"Come now," she said. "I'm at my kitchen table with the laptop open. I'll put the kettle on."

Quinn was already wheeling himself toward the door.

"Go. Text me what it shows."

"I will."

"Lena."

I turned around.

"Don't wait for anyone to give you permission," he said.

The midwife lived in a small yellow house with a porch swing and a wind chime made of spoons.

She hugged me at the door, and she smelled of lavender and toast.

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