The boatyard office at eleven at night, one lamp, the ledger open at the wrong page, and Fordham Dorngaard sitting on the corner of the desk with his tie already gone.
He has been drinking the same cup of coffee for an hour and it must be cold.
"I brought you up here because the house has my mother in it."
He sets the cup down.
"And because I am going to tell you the thing I should have told you four years ago, and I would like it to be somewhere with a door I can shut."
He opens a drawer, takes out a phone that is older than any phone has a right to be, and puts it on the desk between you.
"There's a voicemail on that. Seven years old. Five minutes and forty seconds."
He looks at it, not at you.
"I listen to it about twice a year. I have never deleted it and I have never played it for you, and those are two different kinds of coward."
He lifts his head.
"You can play it or you can tell me to throw it in the lake. Either way I'll answer for it tonight."