May 4, 2017—Five days before interviews
The background of the recording is noisy—clinking plates and silverware, the murmur of voices. It seems to be a public place, probably a restaurant.
ASHFORD: Miss Donoghue. Rebecca.
BECCA: Becca, please. No one calls me Rebecca.
ASHFORD: Becca, then. Do you mind if I record this?
BECCA: Why? To give to the police?
ASHFORD: I try to avoid contact with the police whenever possible. I can assure you that I will do everything I can to see that this recording, and the rest of the materials I may collect, will not come under scrutiny by anyone other than myself and my associates.
BECCA: Associates, huh?
ASHFORD: Mostly just Abigail. You’ll meet her later. My point is that any information you share will be quite safe with us.
BECCA: What more do you need to know?
ASHFORD: A great deal, actually. But for now, let’s talk about why you emailed me. Often when people call me, what they’re looking for is confirmation. Someone who can tell them that what they saw was real. That they aren’t crazy.
BECCA: I don’t need anyone to tell me it was real.
ASHFORD: No, you said you needed help. What sort of help?
Becca hesitates. Someone drops a plate and swears in the background. Then something shifts in her tone; she has come to a decision, decided on a course of action.
BECCA: There’s something wrong with my sister.
ASHFORD: Wrong how?
BECCA: She did something to her.
ASHFORD: Who did something to your sister, Becca?
BECCA: Lucy.
ASHFORD: Lucy Callow? The girl who disappeared in the fifties?
BECCA: We shouldn’t have trusted her. But it was the only way to get home. And now Sara is . . .
She takes a shuddering breath, her voice trembling at the edge of tears.
BECCA: You have to help her. Please. You have to save her.
ASHFORD: Miss Donoghue, I promise you that we are going to do everything we can.