He explained that musicians often recorded temporary piano versions of compositions before a final instrumental performance.

The piano sound in Celeste’s evidence file came from a digital sample library released only recently.

“Are you certain?” I asked.

“I recognize the release, but recognition isn’t proof.”

He opened an example produced with the same library and demonstrated a distinctive metallic overtone on one note.

The similarity was striking.

“Can you document the release date?”

“The publisher can.”

He told me that files could be exported with altered creation dates and that the embedded date should never be treated as conclusive without an original source.

“Why are you helping?” I asked.

He looked down at his coffee.

“Celeste asked me to backdate rehearsal files once.”

“Did you do it?”

“No.”

He paused.

“I quit.”

Adrian did not know whether the file in our case was fabricated by Celeste or somebody acting for her.

He said so repeatedly, as though the honesty cost him something.

He did, however, still have receipts proving when the digital piano library became available.

He also remembered a staff meeting in which Celeste discussed creating practice tracks that made students’ arrangements sound older and more established.

He had found the suggestion troubling and had refused to participate.

We wrote down his account, and he agreed to provide a formal statement through Priya.

Before he left, Adrian asked whether Sophie had been told what her teacher accused her of.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then please tell her that people who make music for a living aren’t fooled by a confident adult waving a date at them.”

I promised to pass along the message.

When I did, Sophie listened without smiling.

“Does he believe me?”

“He believes the recording deserves real examination.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” I said.

“But it’s a step toward somebody making a fair decision.”

She thought about that.

“I can live with fair,” she finally answered.

On Sunday we visited Hannah’s grave.

The cemetery stood behind an old stone church on a hill outside Bellhaven.

Sophie carried three white daisies because Hannah had hated elaborate arrangements and loved the stubborn flowers that grew through cracks in sidewalks.

We sat on a low wall and listened to the wind moving through the trees.

I told Sophie how her mother had once argued with an orchestra conductor over a missing rest in the second violin part.

“She was right,” I said.

“Did the conductor admit it?”

“Eventually.”

“Did she apologize?”