PART 4 — THE NIGHT MY HUSBAND DIED WAS NOT WHAT I REMEMBERED
“Ask your mother what really happened the night Dad died.”
Those words echoed inside my head as I stood in Thomas’s storage unit, holding the telephone against my ear.
For four years, I had lived with the memory of my husband’s final night.
The ambulance.
The hospital.
The doctor explaining that his heart had stopped.
And the terrible silence that followed when I returned to our house without him.
Now someone was suggesting that the worst night of my life contained a secret.
“Daniel,” I whispered, “listen to me carefully.”
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“I need you to photograph both sides of that picture and send them to Rebecca.”
“Why?”
“Because someone is trying to frighten us, and we need to preserve everything they send.”
“Do you think Dad was involved in something illegal?”
My heart twisted.
“No, sweetheart. I think your father discovered something someone didn’t want him to know.”
Daniel went silent.
Then he asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Mom, did Dad really die of a heart attack?”
I closed my eyes.
“That is what his doctors concluded.”
“But the message—”
“A message from someone who is threatening our family is not evidence that the doctors were wrong.”
He exhaled shakily.
“Okay.”
“Where are you now?”
“In my office. The door’s locked.”
“Stay with someone you trust until we arrange a safe place to meet.”
“Mom, I’m thirty-four years old.”
“And I’m sixty-three. Neither of us is too old to be careful.”
He gave a small, nervous laugh.
For one brief second, he sounded like the little boy who used to call me whenever a thunderstorm frightened him.
Then his voice became serious again.
“I think Vanessa has been lying to me.”
I swallowed.
“About what?”
“Everything.”
I wanted to comfort him.
I wanted to say that people made mistakes, that love survived misunderstandings, that he could still have the wedding he’d dreamed of.
But I couldn’t lie to my son.
“Daniel, right now we need the truth more than we need reassuring answers.”
After ending the call, I turned toward Rebecca.
She was already speaking with the investigator.
“We need those threatening messages preserved,” she said. “And the storage facility’s surveillance footage.”
The investigator nodded.
“We’ll document everything and coordinate with law enforcement regarding the threats.”
I looked around Thomas’s storage unit.
His tools.
His books.
His old fishing equipment.
The ordinary belongings of a man who had spent his entire life working for his family.
Suddenly, every object seemed to hold a secret.
“Rebecca,” I said, “I need to go home.”
She looked at me carefully.
“Because of the blue ledger?”
“Yes.”
“Margaret, someone photographed your cottage this morning. I don’t think you should return without making sure it’s safe.”
I knew she was right.
But somewhere in my house was a notebook Thomas had kept for years.
And if his final message meant anything, that notebook could explain why Richard Whitmore was so desperate.
“Then call the police,” I replied. “But I’m not abandoning my husband’s last warning.”
Forty minutes later, we arrived on my street.
A patrol car was parked near the corner.
An officer had checked the exterior of my cottage, and another was speaking with a neighbor.
Everything looked normal.
The roses moved gently in the afternoon breeze.
My little white porch gleamed in the sunlight.
And my old Toyota sat beside the garage.
Yet I no longer felt that my home was safe.
Rebecca accompanied me inside.
The living room looked exactly as I’d left it.
My knitting basket sat beside the couch.
A half-finished crossword rested on the coffee table.
Thomas’s photograph smiled from the mantel.
I stared at his face.
“I’m sorry, darling,” I whispered.
Rebecca heard me.
“For what?”
“For not opening that storage unit sooner.”
She shook her head.
“Margaret, you were grieving.”
“I was also running a company.”
“You were surviving the loss of your husband.”
I didn’t answer.
Because part of me had always wondered whether I’d missed something during those final months.
Thomas had been unusually quiet.
He’d spent long evenings in his study.
He’d taken phone calls outside.
And once, only two weeks before he died, I’d found him standing beside the bedroom window with tears in his eyes.
When I asked what was wrong, he kissed my forehead.
“Nothing I can’t handle, Maggie.”
I’d believed him.
I would have believed anything he said.
That was the problem.
We walked into my study.
After Thomas died, I’d converted his old office into a reading room, but I’d kept most of his belongings.
The oak desk remained beside the window.
His antique clock still ticked on the shelf.
And beneath the desk sat a heavy wooden filing cabinet.
I knelt.
Rebecca crouched beside me.
“Where would he have kept the ledger?”
“In the bottom drawer.”
I pulled the handle.
Locked.
Of course.
Thomas had always locked that drawer.
“Do you have a key?” Rebecca asked.
“I think so.”
I opened a small ceramic bowl on the bookshelf.
Inside lay a collection of spare keys, old coins, and a tiny brass compass Thomas had carried when we were young.
I found the key immediately.
A small silver key with a blue thread tied around its head.
My husband had never been subtle about organizing things.
I inserted it into the lock.
Turned it.
And opened the drawer.
Inside were several folders, a fountain pen, an old photograph of Daniel as a child, and a blue leather-bound notebook.
I stopped breathing.
There it was.
The blue ledger.
Exactly where Thomas had left it.
I lifted it carefully.
The leather was worn.
The corners were soft.
And the first page contained a handwritten message.
For Margaret, when the numbers stop making sense.
Tears filled my eyes.
“Thomas,” I whispered.
Rebecca placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Take your time.”
But I couldn’t.
Not anymore.
I opened the notebook.
The first several pages contained ordinary company records.
Dates.
Names.
Contract references.
Notes about warehouses and equipment purchases.
Then, halfway through, the handwriting changed.
Thomas had begun writing more urgently.
Some lines were underlined.
Others were marked with stars.
One page carried only three names.
Richard Whitmore.
Peter Collins.
Eleanor Price.
I frowned.
“Eleanor?”
Rebecca leaned closer.
“Do you know her?”
“Of course.”
Eleanor Price had been our corporate finance controller for nearly twenty years.
She retired shortly after Thomas died.
A quiet, hardworking woman who rarely attended company social events.
Thomas trusted her completely.
And so had I.
“Why would her name be beside Richard’s and Peter’s?” I asked.
Rebecca examined the page.
“Maybe they were involved in a transaction together.”
I turned the page.
A single sentence was written beneath a date from four years earlier.
Peter is not the only one lying. Eleanor knows where the money went.
I stared at the words.
Then I looked at Rebecca.
“Find Eleanor Price.”
Rebecca immediately took out her phone.
I continued reading.
The next page contained a list of payments.
Several were marked with the same project code we’d seen in the boardroom.
HERITAGE.
But these amounts were much smaller.
$18,000.
$42,500.
$65,000.
Then a larger entry.
$310,000.
Beside it, Thomas had written:
No board approval. No legitimate vendor documentation. Richard says Peter arranged it.
My stomach tightened.
This wasn’t merely an old family investment project.
Thomas had apparently been investigating suspicious transactions before his death.
I turned another page.
And there, written across the top in thick blue ink, were five words that made my hands begin to tremble.
DANIEL MUST NEVER SIGN ANYTHING.
I stared at the sentence.
Rebecca noticed.
“Margaret?”
I showed her.
Her expression changed.
“What could Thomas have meant?”
“I don’t know.”
Below the warning was a note.
Peter wants Daniel involved in the successor trust. Richard says it will protect the family. I believe it could expose him to liabilities he doesn’t understand.
I read the sentence twice.
“Successor trust?”
Rebecca frowned.
“I’ve never heard of a successor trust connected to Collins Industrial.”
“Neither have I.”
She reached for her phone.
“I’ll have our legal team check the corporate and estate records.”
I kept turning the pages.
There were more references to Peter.
More unexplained payments.
And repeated concerns about documents Thomas had been asked to sign.
Then I found an entry dated eleven days before he died.
Meeting with Peter and Richard ended badly. They know I refused. Peter says Margaret will never forgive him if this becomes public.
I stopped.
Peter.
My husband’s younger brother.
The man who had stood beside me at Thomas’s funeral.
The man who’d hugged Daniel and promised to help us through everything.
The man who disappeared from our lives three months later.
I’d assumed he was grieving.
Now I wondered what he’d been running from.
Rebecca finished her call.
“Our records team is searching for Eleanor. Her last known address is outside Charleston.”
“Can we contact her?”
“We’ll try.”
I looked back at the ledger.
Near the end, Thomas had written one final dated entry.
It was from the afternoon before he died.
I have enough to stop them. Tomorrow I will tell Margaret everything.
My throat closed.
Tomorrow.
He’d planned to tell me tomorrow.
But tomorrow had never come.
I pressed the ledger against my chest.
For four years, I’d blamed myself for not being with him when he collapsed.
He’d been working late in his study.
I’d gone upstairs to bed after he assured me he would follow soon.
At approximately eleven-thirty, I’d heard a crash.
I’d rushed downstairs.
And found him unconscious beside his desk.
The ambulance came.
The paramedics worked on him.
And by morning, my world was gone.
Now I stared at his final note.
He had planned to tell me everything.
What had happened between that afternoon and eleven-thirty that night?
My phone vibrated.
A message from Daniel.
Three photographs.
The first showed Thomas sitting at a restaurant table with Richard Whitmore.
The second showed Peter Collins beside them.
And the third was a close-up of the writing on the back.
Ask your mother what really happened the night Dad died.
Below the photographs, Daniel had added another message.
Mom, Vanessa won’t stop calling. She’s demanding that I bring her Dad’s laptop.
I immediately called him.
“Daniel, do not give her anything.”
“I haven’t.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She says she’s at her father’s house.”
I glanced at Rebecca.
“Did you tell her about the storage unit?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He hesitated.
“Mom, I called off the wedding.”
I closed my eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“She keeps saying I’m choosing you over her.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That nobody who respects me would ask me to abandon my own mother.”
Tears stung my eyes.
“Daniel…”
“I should have said it Friday night.”
“You defended me Friday night.”
“Not enough.”
“Listen to me,” I said softly. “You don’t need to punish yourself for loving someone. But you do need to pay attention to how they treat people.”
He was quiet.
Then he whispered,
“I don’t think I know who Vanessa really is.”
Neither did I.
And I was beginning to suspect that her relationship with Daniel might be connected to something much older than their engagement.
“Sweetheart, have you ever signed paperwork for Vanessa’s father?”
“No.”
“Anything related to family trusts, investments, or company shares?”
He paused.
Then said,
“Actually…”
My heart sank.
“What?”
“Vanessa brought some documents to my apartment about six months ago.”
“What documents?”
“She said her father wanted to help us with our financial planning before the wedding.”
“Did you sign them?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Daniel.”
“I remember looking through them. There was a section about inheritance and family assets, but I told her I wanted my own attorney to review everything first.”
Relief washed through me.
“What happened after that?”
“She got upset.”
“How upset?”
“She accused me of not trusting her family.”
I closed my eyes.
“Do you still have the documents?”
“I scanned them.”
I nearly cried.
“Thank God for your father’s habit of keeping copies.”
Daniel gave a sad laugh.
“Yeah. I guess I inherited that.”
“Send them to Rebecca. Don’t change anything.”
“I will.”
After the call, I sat at Thomas’s desk and waited.
Rebecca began reviewing the pages of the ledger with the independent investigators.
Within minutes, Daniel’s scanned documents arrived.
Rebecca opened them on her laptop.
Her expression hardened.
“Margaret, you need to see this.”
She turned the screen toward me.
The first pages appeared ordinary.
Premarital financial disclosure.
Asset protection.
Estate planning.
But buried near the middle was a section labeled:
Contingent Beneficiary and Successor Interest Assignment.
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Rebecca read carefully.
“It’s drafted to assign certain future ownership interests to a holding entity under specified conditions.”
“What holding entity?”
She scrolled.
“Whitmore Heritage Partners LLC.”
I felt cold.
“Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
“Richard’s company?”
“Possibly. We need to verify its ownership.”
I stared at the document.
“And what would Daniel have been assigning?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Any qualifying interest he might inherit under the Collins family estate arrangements.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Thomas’s warning echoed through my mind.
DANIEL MUST NEVER SIGN ANYTHING.
I looked at Rebecca.
“They were trying to get my son to sign away his inheritance?”
“The clause appears designed to capture certain future interests, but its enforceability would depend on several things. We need a full legal review.”
“Did Daniel sign?”
“According to him, no.”
I gripped the edge of the desk.
For the first time, I felt something stronger than fear.
Anger.
Not the anger I’d felt when Richard insulted me.
Not the anger of a proud woman being humiliated.
This was different.
Someone had approached my son with documents apparently designed to benefit a company bearing Richard’s name.
And they had done it through the woman he loved.
“Rebecca,” I said, “I want the ownership records for Whitmore Heritage Partners.”
“I’ll request them.”
“And I want to know when the company was formed.”
She typed rapidly.
A minute later, her phone rang.
She answered.
Listened.
Then slowly sat down.
“What is it?” I asked.
She ended the call.
“Margaret, Whitmore Heritage Partners was formed four years ago.”
My blood chilled.
“Four years?”
“Yes.”
“Before or after Thomas died?”
Rebecca looked at me.
“Three weeks before.”
I stared at the notebook in my hands.
Thomas had discovered the scheme.
He had planned to tell me.
And three weeks before his death, someone had established a holding company that might eventually benefit from my family’s assets.
A terrible thought formed.
Had my husband’s death been merely a tragedy?
Or had someone been waiting for him to disappear?
I pushed the thought away.
I needed evidence, not nightmares.
“Rebecca, call the investigators. Tell them about the company.”
“Already doing it.”
Then the doorbell rang.
Both of us froze.
An officer outside checked the visitor before allowing me to approach the door.
A delivery driver stood on my porch holding a small padded envelope.
“Margaret Collins?”
“Yes.”
“Signature required.”
I signed.
He handed me the envelope and left.
There was no return address.
Only my name.
Inside was an old photograph.
Thomas.
Me.
And Peter.
Taken twenty-six years earlier, during our company’s first expansion.
We were standing in front of a warehouse, smiling.
Peter had his arm around my husband’s shoulders.
On the back, someone had written:
Some debts are never forgiven.
There was also a folded letter.
I opened it.
Only two sentences.
Your husband tried to protect you from the truth about his brother. If you want answers, ask Peter why he vanished after the funeral.
I stared at the paper.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Rebecca saw it.
“Don’t answer without recording the details.”
I put the call on speaker while she prepared to document it.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice answered.
“Margaret.”
My heart stopped.
I knew that voice.
Even after four years.
“Peter?”
Silence.
Then a low sigh.
“I’m sorry.”
I gripped the phone.
“Where have you been?”
“Trying to stay alive.”
I exchanged a look with Rebecca.
“What are you talking about?”
“Richard knows you’re investigating.”
“I know.”
“He knows you found the ledger.”
My blood turned cold.
“How could he possibly know that?”
Peter didn’t answer.
“Peter!”
“Margaret, listen carefully. You need to get Daniel away from Vanessa.”
“Why?”
“Because the engagement was never supposed to become a marriage.”
I felt the room spinning.
“What?”
“Vanessa wasn’t supposed to fall in love with your son.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Peter continued.
“She was supposed to get close enough to make him sign the documents.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
Rebecca leaned toward the phone.
“Peter, this is Rebecca Hayes. We need you to come forward and speak with investigators.”
“Rebecca,” he whispered. “Thomas said I could trust you.”
“Then tell us where you are.”
He ignored the question.
“Margaret, I’m sorry I didn’t stop it earlier.”
“Stop what?”
“What Richard was doing.”
My heart pounded.
“What was he doing, Peter?”
Peter breathed heavily.
“I helped create Heritage.”
The words felt like a physical blow.
“You what?”
“It was supposed to be a legitimate investment structure. Richard convinced me that Thomas was holding the company back. We thought we could move certain assets into a new entity and eventually buy out some of the family interests.”
“You were trying to take our company?”
“No. Not at first.”
“Peter!”
“I know how it sounds.”
“How it sounds? You were my husband’s brother!”
His voice broke.
“I know.”
“Thomas trusted you!”
“I know!”
“Then why?”
There was a long silence.
Finally, Peter whispered,
“Because I owed Richard money.”
I stared at the phone.
“How much?”
“More than I could ever repay.”
“What kind of debt?”
“Business losses. Personal guarantees. I made terrible decisions, Margaret.”
“And Richard used that?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“But Thomas found out.”
Peter’s voice trembled.
“He found the transfers. He discovered that Richard had been hiding losses and moving money through consulting firms. Thomas threatened to expose everything.”
“When?”
“The week before he died.”
The room became painfully quiet.
Then I asked the question that had been burning inside me.
“Peter, what happened the night Thomas died?”
He didn’t answer.
“Peter?”
“Margaret…”
“Tell me.”
His breathing grew ragged.
“I was there.”
I couldn’t move.
“What?”
“At your house.”
I gripped the desk.
“The night Thomas collapsed?”
“Yes.”
My knees weakened.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“I was upstairs. I would have heard you.”
“Thomas let me in through the side door.”
My heart hammered.
“What time?”
“A little after ten.”
I stared at the wall.
Thomas had been alive at ten.
I’d kissed him goodnight around nine-thirty.
“Why were you there?”
“He called me.”
“What did he want?”
“He said he’d found proof that someone was using his name and yours to authorize transfers.”
I looked at Rebecca.
Her face was pale.
“Did he know it was Richard?”
“He suspected him. And he knew I’d helped create the first arrangement.”
I swallowed.
“What happened?”
“We argued.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“About what?”
“He wanted me to tell you everything. I begged him to give me twenty-four hours.”
“And?”
“He refused.”
Peter’s voice cracked.
“He said he wouldn’t let anyone steal from the company or use Daniel’s future as collateral.”
I pressed my hand against my chest.
That sounded exactly like Thomas.
Honest.
Stubborn.
Protective.
“What happened next?” I whispered.
Peter didn’t answer.
“Peter, please.”
“I left.”
“When?”
“Around eleven.”
“Was Thomas alive?”
“Yes.”
I shut my eyes.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me you were there?”
Peter began crying.
“Because Richard told me to keep quiet.”
I felt sick.
“Why?”
“He said people would blame me.”
“For what?”
“For upsetting Thomas before his heart attack.”
I stared at the ceiling.
My husband’s heart condition had been known.
Stress could have worsened it.
But that still didn’t explain why Peter had disappeared or why someone was threatening us.
“Peter,” I said, “did Richard come to the house that night?”
A terrible silence followed.
Then Peter whispered,
“That’s the part I never told anyone.”
I stopped breathing.
“What part?”
“When I left, there was another car parked down the street.”
“Whose?”
“I didn’t recognize it at first.”
My hands trembled.
“Peter.”
He took a shaky breath.
“It belonged to Eleanor Price.”
I looked sharply at Rebecca.
Eleanor.
The retired finance controller.
The woman whose name appeared in the blue ledger.
“What was she doing there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she go inside?”
“I didn’t see.”
“Then why didn’t you tell the police?”
“I was frightened. Richard said if anyone investigated the financial records, I’d lose everything.”
I closed my eyes.
“Peter, you need to give a formal statement.”
“I will.”
“Then come here.”
He hesitated.
“Margaret, I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because someone has been following me.”
“Where are you?”
Another silence.
Then he whispered,
“There’s something else about Eleanor.”
My heart raced.
“What?”
“She didn’t retire voluntarily.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Richard paid her to leave.”
“For what?”
Peter’s breathing quickened.
“She kept records. Copies of the original transfers. Emails. Internal approvals.”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Peter—”
“But she told me something before she disappeared.”
I gripped the phone.
“What did she say?”
He lowered his voice.
“She said Thomas discovered who was really authorizing the transfers.”
I stared at Rebecca.
“Who?”
Peter hesitated.
“Margaret, the answer is going to hurt.”
“Tell me.”
His next words barely rose above a whisper.
“He believed someone in your own executive office was helping Richard.”
I felt my stomach drop.
Someone in my office.
Someone with access to my credentials.
Someone who knew my schedule.
Someone who knew where I would be on the anniversary of Thomas’s death.
Slowly, I turned toward Rebecca.
She was standing perfectly still.
Her expression was unreadable.
Peter spoke again.
“Margaret?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t tell anyone about this conversation until I’ve spoken to the investigators.”
I looked at the woman who had stood beside me for fourteen years.
The woman Thomas had explicitly told me to trust.
And suddenly I understood how dangerous it would be to accuse the wrong person.
“Peter,” I said carefully, “I need you to tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Did Thomas discover the name?”
Peter began to answer.
Then I heard a sudden noise.
A door slamming.
Footsteps.
“Peter?”
His breathing became frantic.
“Someone’s here.”
“Where are you?”
No answer.
“Peter!”
Then his voice returned, barely audible.
“Margaret, listen. The blue ledger isn’t the most important thing Thomas left you.”
My heart raced.
“What is?”
“The recording.”
I froze.
“What recording?”
“The one he made that night.”
I pressed the phone closer.
“Peter, where is it?”
He whispered three words.
“Behind his photograph.”
Then the call ended.
I stared at the dead screen.
Rebecca immediately attempted to call back.
No answer.
I slowly turned toward the mantel.
Thomas’s framed photograph stood exactly where it had stood for four years.
The same silver frame.
The same familiar smile.
The same picture I’d looked at every morning while drinking my coffee.
I walked toward it.
My hands were trembling so badly that I nearly dropped it.
Rebecca followed.
“Margaret, what are you doing?”
I turned the frame over.
The backing looked ordinary.
Brown cardboard.
Two small metal clips.
I bent one clip backward.
Then the other.
And removed the cardboard.
A tiny black memory card fell into my palm.
I stared at it.
Rebecca whispered,
“Oh my God.”
I held the card between my fingers.
For four years, the truth might have been sitting inside my living room.
Hidden behind the face of the man I loved.
Rebecca looked at me.
“We should let the investigators make a forensic copy before anyone plays it.”
I nodded.
But then I noticed something else.
A small folded note tucked into the corner of the frame.
I unfolded it.
Thomas’s handwriting.
Only one sentence.
If they ever tell you I betrayed you, Maggie, listen to my voice before you believe them.
My eyes filled with tears.
The investigators documented the card and arranged a forensic examination.
We waited in my living room while the first verified copy was prepared.
Every minute felt like an hour.
Finally, an investigator approached.
“Mrs. Collins, we’ve confirmed that the card contains several audio files. We haven’t established their authenticity yet, but there’s one that appears to be dated the night your husband died.”
I clutched Rebecca’s hand.
“Can I hear it?”
He nodded.
“We can play a working copy. I must caution you that the recording may be incomplete.”
He connected his laptop to a small speaker.
A burst of static filled the room.
Then a voice spoke.
A voice I hadn’t heard in four years.
Thomas.
My husband.
“Maggie, if you’re hearing this, something has gone terribly wrong.”
I covered my mouth.
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
“I wanted to tell you everything tomorrow. But I don’t think I can wait anymore.”
A faint sound followed.
Then Thomas continued.
“Richard has been moving money through Heritage. Peter helped him. But neither of them understands who really controls the accounts.”
I stared at the speaker.
Thomas’s voice grew quieter.
“Someone has been using your name, Maggie. And I finally found out how.”
There was a pause.
Then footsteps.
A door opening.
Thomas spoke again, no longer addressing the recording.
“What are you doing here?”
A woman’s voice answered.
“You shouldn’t have kept copies, Thomas.”
My blood turned to ice.
The voice was unmistakably female.
Thomas sounded angry.
“You’re involved too?”
The woman replied,
“You were supposed to leave it alone.”
Then came a sharp noise.
A chair scraping.
Thomas shouted,
“Get out of my house!”
The recording crackled.
A few seconds passed.
Then Thomas said something that made every person in the room freeze.
“You were there when Margaret signed the original authorization. You know she never agreed to this.”
The woman answered softly.
“Margaret doesn’t need to know what we did.”
I stopped breathing.
Because I recognized the voice.
Not from an old memory.
Not from a distant acquaintance.
But from someone who had spoken to me that very morning.
I slowly turned toward Rebecca.
She was staring at the speaker.
Her face had gone completely white.
Then Thomas said one final sentence.
“If anything happens to me, Rebecca will find out what you’ve done.”
The recording ended.
I looked at Rebecca.
She looked back at me.
And whispered,
“Margaret… I know that voice.”
My heart hammered.
“Whose is it?”
Rebecca swallowed.
“It’s not mine.”
“I know.”
She took a trembling breath.
“It’s Eleanor Price.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then the investigator looked at his screen.
“Mrs. Collins, there’s another audio file.”
I gripped the arm of the sofa.
“What does it contain?”
He hesitated.
“The filename is different.”
“What does it say?”
He turned the screen toward me.
The filename contained only four words.
THE PERSON BEHIND HERITAGE.
And beneath it was a timestamp.
11:27 p.m.
Three minutes before I heard my husband collapse.
END OF PART 4 — TO BE CONTINUED…
