But the voice that came through wasn't my daughter's. It was Mabel's breathy moan.
"Baby, thank God Amber's such an idiot. She got so wasted she didn't even realize she signed her own daughter's heart transplant consent form."
What did that mean?
My legs buckled. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, my eyes locked on the speaker.
It came flooding back. A week ago, Mabel had come to me with a glass of wine, wanting to talk. She kept pouring, glass after glass, until my head was swimming and she guided my hand across a piece of paper to sign my name.
I was the one who killed my daughter.
My hands shook violently. The speaker slipped from my grip and hit the floor. I pressed my palms over my ears, choking on the pain.
"I'd give up everything for you and our baby. Amber means nothing. I only want you two. At least her daughter's heart is good for something..."
Then came Guy's ragged panting.
I had believed I'd found my way into his heart. Only now did I understand that the person he would give up everything for had never been me.
Every scrap of happiness I thought I'd had was nothing more than overflow from Guy's love for Mabel. Scraps tossed my way from a feast that was never mine.
My heart seized as though an ice-cold fist had clamped around it and twisted. The pain bent me double. I couldn't breathe.
A voice broke through from outside the door. "Ma'am, if we don't leave now, we'll miss the funeral."
I bit down hard, swallowing the urge to tear Guy apart with my bare hands. I copied the last recording from the speaker, steadied myself on shaking legs, and left with the assistant for the funeral.
The service was nearly over. I had just worked up the nerve to confront Guy when Mabel appeared, a hint of a smile in her eyes, carrying a bouquet of white chrysanthemums in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
Her face wore a mask of tender concern. Then she opened the bag and pulled out the papers inside, one by one.
"Big sis, I brought you three gifts. You're going to love them."
She handed me the first sheet, smiling sweetly. "Gift number one: Guy's vasectomy certificate."
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
I stared at the cold date printed on the report. My nails dug into my palm hard enough to draw blood, but I felt nothing.
The date of the procedure was right there in black and white: the day after my daughter died.