Chapter 23 - Allison’s Last RecordingA year after the investigation began, Thomas Kell’s office finished digitizing Allison’s remaining archived media.
One audio file surfaced.
It had been attached to a draft email never sent.
Thomas forwarded it to Conrad.
He waited three days before listening.
Then asked Wren:
“There’s a recording of Mom.”
Wren’s eyes widened.
“Talking?”
“Yes.”
“To me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can we listen?”
Conrad hesitated.
Then nodded.
They sat together.
Allison’s voice entered the room.
Weak.
Warm.
Alive.
“Conrad, I’m recording because I keep losing energy halfway through conversations and then you tell me we’ll finish later.”
Conrad laughed painfully.
She continued.
“You are impossible.”
Wren smiled.
“That sounds like Mom?”
“Yes.”
Allison continued.
“This is about Maureen, but also about us.”
Conrad’s chest tightened.
“I think she loves Wren. I also think love is becoming control for her.”
Wren looked at Conrad.
He squeezed her hand.
“Allison had seen it.”
“She has started acting as if nobody else understands Wren. That scares me.”
A pause.
“I also think we made it easy.”
Conrad closed his eyes.
“We gave Maureen the schedule. The doctors. The school. The house. Then we treated questions about her like questions about whether we were grateful.”
Wren listened.
Allison’s breath caught.
“We can be grateful and still set limits.”
Another pause.
“Conrad, you cannot solve grief by working harder.”
He looked down.
Wren squeezed his hand now.
“You keep telling me you’re building security for Wren. She already has money. She needs a father she can interrupt.”
Conrad began crying.
Wren leaned against him.
Allison continued.
“And if I die…”
Her voice changed.
“I hate saying that.”
Long pause.
“If I die, don’t let everyone turn me into a rulebook.”
Wren stared.
“What does that mean?” she whispered.
Conrad said:
“Listen.”
“I don’t want Wren growing up hearing, ‘Your mother would want this,’ every time someone wants to control her.”
Conrad closed his eyes.
Maureen had done exactly that.
“Tell her I loved her. Tell her I worried. Tell her I was wrong sometimes. Let me stay a person.”
Wren cried silently now.
Then Allison laughed weakly.
“And please tell her I hated peas until I was twenty-seven, because if anyone tells that child I loved vegetables, they are lying.”
Wren burst out laughing through tears.
“I hate peas!”
“I know.”
Allison continued.
“One more thing.”
Her voice softened.
“Believe her.”
Conrad stopped breathing.
“If Wren tells you something feels wrong, don’t make her build a court case first.”
Silence in the recording.
Then:
“Okay. I’m tired. I’ll finish this tomorrow.”
She never did.
The file ended.
Wren stared at the speaker.
“Play again?”
They listened twice.
No legal analysis.
No evidence tagging.
Just Allison.
Afterward, Wren asked:
“Did Mom know she was going to die?”
“Sometimes.”
“Was she scared?”
“Yes.”
“Was she brave?”
“Yes.”
“Both.”
“Both.”
Wren smiled faintly.
Then:
“She said don’t make her a rulebook.”
Conrad laughed.
“I heard.”
“So I don’t have to eat peas?”
“Absolutely not what she meant.”
“Sounds exactly like what she meant.”
He laughed harder than he had in months.
Later, Conrad sent a copy to Dr. Lang.
Not for evidence.
For Wren’s memory archive.
He also made a decision.
No more quoting Allison to end arguments.
No:
Your mother would want…
Instead:
“I think.”
“I believe.”
“I’m deciding.”
Adults should own their choices.
Maureen had used a dead woman because Allison could not correct her.
Conrad would not.
That week, Wren asked whether she could quit piano.
Conrad wanted to say Allison loved hearing her play.
He stopped.
“Why?”
“I don’t like it.”
“You loved it last year.”
“I liked Ms. Chen.”
Different.
They negotiated finishing the semester.
No ghost invoked.
It felt small.
It mattered.
Meanwhile, Maureen’s appeal deadline passed.
No appeal.
Ryan completed restitution arrangements.
Thomas accepted a public reprimand and restrictions on his trust practice.
Marisol’s false-theft materials were formally destroyed after investigators closed that portion.
High Desert was dissolved.
Ridgecrest refunded the deposit to Wren’s trust.
The legal machinery slowly stopped moving.
Conrad waited for relief.
It came quietly.
One morning, there were no lawyer emails.
No police calls.
No therapists rescheduling emergency sessions.
He stood in the kitchen looking at his phone.
Nothing.
Wren walked in.
“Why are you staring?”
“Nobody needs me urgently.”
She opened the refrigerator.
“Can you make waffles?”
Conrad smiled.
“There it is.”
May you like
Normal urgency.
The best kind.
