The voice on the answering machine wasn’t a ghost. It wasn’t Elias.
“David, you’re running out of time,” the voice said. It was smooth, cultured, and dripping with arrogant amusement. “Sign the transfer papers by 8:00 AM, or the coast guard gets the photos of you cutting Elias’s life vest.”
David’s hand slipped from under mine. He collapsed into the leather chair, burying his face in his hands. The mahogany desk suddenly looked like a tombstone. The brass phone sat there, gleaming in the dim light, a silent witness to our ruin. The rain lashed against the study windows, casting long, jagged shadows across the hardwood floor.
“It’s Marcus,” David choked out. “Our lawyer. He’s been blackmailing me for six months.”
My stomach twisted. Marcus Vance had been the Hayes family attorney for twenty years. He was the one who handled Elias’s estate. He was the one who held David’s hand at the funeral, his face a mask of practiced grief.
“He’s been using a voice modulator,” I said, my voice steady. “The heavy breathing. The distortion. It was a recording he played before he spoke.”
David looked up, his eyes red and sunken. “How do you know that? How do you know it’s him?”
I didn’t answer right away. I walked over to the heavy oak bookshelf. I pulled out a thick, leather-bound ledger. I placed it on the desk next to the brass phone. The thud of the book hitting the wood echoed in the quiet room.
“Because I didn’t just stop you from answering the phone, David,” I said. “I had the line tapped three months ago.”
The room went dead silent. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the distant rumble of thunder.
“I knew you were unraveling,” I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. “I knew you were drinking too much scotch. I knew you weren’t sleeping. But I also knew you weren’t crazy. I hired a private investigator in Poughkeepsie. We traced the digital spoofing software Marcus was using to mask his number.”
I opened the ledger. Inside were printed transcripts of every single 2:00 AM call. Every threat. Every demand. And at the back, a stack of bank statements showing Marcus funneling the Hayes trust fund into an offshore account in the Caymans.
“He didn’t just fake Elias’s death to steal the estate,” I said, turning the page to a grainy photograph. “He killed him. The coast guard never found the body because Marcus paid the boat captain to dump it in the trench.”
David stared at the photograph. The color drained from his face. He looked at the brass phone, then at me. The terror in his eyes was slowly being replaced by a cold, hard fury. His hands stopped shaking.
“The police are already on their way,” I said. “I gave them the transcripts and the bank records an hour ago. They’re raiding his office in Manhattan right now.”
David stood up. He walked over to the window, looking out at the storm. The rain was still lashing against the glass, but the house felt different now. The suffocating weight was gone.
“You saved me,” he whispered.
“We saved us,” I corrected him.
The brass phone suddenly rang again. Ring. Ring. Ring.
Neither of us moved. We just watched it vibrate against the mahogany.
Downstairs, the heavy front door echoed with the sound of heavy boots. The state police had arrived. I closed the leather ledger and placed my hand on the cold brass of the telephone, listening to the muffled shouts from the foyer.