Chapter 9 - The Father He Never Knew
I did not sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Grant sitting in the den recording a warning he knew might outlive him.
Then I saw Evan at six years old telling a therapist that his mother made him practice accusations.
Then I saw Charles Voss standing beside Grant's coffin with one hand on Evan's shoulder.
At the funeral, Charles had told him, "Your father was proud of you."
Now I wondered which father he meant.
At eight the next morning, a guard escorted me to a private interview room.
I expected my emergency attorney.
Charles was waiting instead.
He sat behind the metal table in a navy suit, his silver hair perfect, his hands folded over an expensive leather portfolio.
"Get out," I said.
He smiled.
"Good morning to you too."
"You are not my lawyer anymore."
"Technically, I still represent the Whitaker estate."
"The estate built on a forged will?"
The smile disappeared.
Only for a moment.
Then it returned.
"I see Elias has been busy."
"I see you have been murdering people for nineteen years."
Charles leaned back.
"Careful."
"This room records audio and video."
"Good."
"Then say clearly that Grant's real will is legitimate."
He laughed softly.
"A document recovered from a rusted stove by a woman charged with attempted murder?"
"You think that frightens me?"
"Martha Keene witnessed it."
His eyes changed.
That told me Martha mattered.
"Martha is elderly, frightened, and deeply compromised."
"She accepted money from Laurel."
"A competent attorney will make her look purchased by whichever side paid last."
I leaned toward him.
"She saw Laurel poison Grant."
Charles's fingers stopped moving.
"Did she?"
"Yes."
"Then why did she wait eight months?"
"Because you threatened her family."
"According to Martha."
"According to recordings Grant kept."
That was partly a bluff.
We had Charles's confrontation with Grant, but not the threat to Martha.
Charles did not know what was on the flash drive.
His caution told me he feared it.
"You should be focused on yourself," he said.
"I am."
"No, Nora."
He opened his portfolio.
"You are focused on vengeance."
He slid a document across the table.
It was a plea agreement.
I stared at it.
"Attempted voluntary manslaughter."
"Seven-year sentence."
"Eligible for parole much earlier."
I looked up.
"In exchange for what?"
"A guilty plea."
"Transfer of any claim connected to Miller's Ridge."
"And a statement that Elias Mercer manipulated you into making false allegations against Laurel, Martin, and me."
I almost laughed.
"You want me to confess to a crime Evan committed so you can bury Grant again."
Charles's voice stayed smooth.
"I want you alive in seven years."
"That is generous."
"More generous than the alternative."
There it was.
Not quite a threat.
Close enough to feel one.
"What alternative?"
He looked toward the camera in the corner.
Then he leaned back and spoke carefully.
"Trials are uncertain."
"Witnesses disappear."
"Evidence changes meaning."
"Families suffer."
I thought of Lily's photograph.
"Stay away from my sister."
"I have never harmed Hannah."
"You sent men to her cottage."
"Can you prove that?"
"Martin can."
Charles smiled.
"Then find him."
The arrogance in his voice infuriated me.
He believed Martin would never be found alive long enough to testify.
Maybe he was right.
I pushed the plea agreement back.
"No."
Charles sighed.
"You were always stubborn."
"Grant loved that about me."
For the first time, real anger crossed his face.
"Grant loved people who made him feel morally superior."
"You."
"Elias."
"Even Arthur."
"He collected righteous people because it allowed him to pretend he wasn't built from the same selfish blood as the rest of us."
The word blood hung between us.
I watched him closely.
"Speaking of blood."
Charles became still.
I continued.
"Grant had a DNA test done."
His face did not move.
But the color drained slowly from his cheeks.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Evan isn't Grant's biological son."
Silence.
"And the comparison sample matches you."
Charles stared at me.
For the first time since I had known him, the polished attorney disappeared completely.
Underneath was a frightened man.
"Where is that file?"
I smiled.
"Now you sound like Laurel."
He stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
"Where is the file?"
A guard appeared at the window.
Charles forced himself to sit again.
"You do not understand what you are interfering with."
"Then explain it."
His jaw worked.
"Laurel told me Evan was Grant's."
The answer surprised me.
"You didn't know?"
"Not for certain."
"You managed his trust for seventeen years."
"Because Laurel asked me to."
"Because you were sleeping with her."
He looked at the camera again.
"That is irrelevant."
"It seems extremely relevant."
Charles leaned closer.
"Listen to me carefully."
"If Grant tested Evan, Laurel will panic."
"You think she is dangerous now?"
"You have not seen her frightened."
I stared at him.
"You are afraid of her."
His mouth tightened.
"I am afraid of what she does when control slips."
That was not the answer I expected.
For a moment, I wondered whether Charles had come to offer a plea bargain or to discover what evidence I had before Laurel did.
"Where is Evan?" I asked.
He looked away.
"I don't know."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"He was supposed to be with child services."
"He ran."
"Laurel has him."
Charles's silence was enough.
"Where?"
"I said I don't know."
"Then why are you scared?"
He closed the portfolio.
"Because Evan has spent his entire life believing Grant chose you over him."
"If he learns Grant was not his biological father, he may reinterpret every memory he has."
"And if he learns I'm his father, he will ask questions I cannot answer without exposing Laurel."
"Or yourself."
Charles stood.
"Take the deal, Nora."
"Not for me."
"For Hannah."
"For Lily."
"For Evan, if any part of you still cares about him."
I wanted to throw the table at him.
Instead, I asked quietly, "Did you kill Arthur?"
His eyes met mine.
"No."
"Did Martin hold him while Laurel watched?"
Charles's face tightened.
"You are asking the wrong question."
"What is the right one?"
He walked toward the door.
Then he stopped.
"Ask why Arthur brought a tape recorder to Miller's Ridge the day he died."
The guard opened the door.
Charles left.
I sat alone with my heart pounding.
He had just given me information he did not need to give.
Either he wanted to help me.
Or he wanted me to chase something that would get me killed.
Two hours later, my new attorney arrived.
Her name was Priya Shah, and she was the opposite of Charles in almost every visible way.
She wore a wrinkled gray suit, carried three overstuffed folders, and spoke so quickly I had to ask her to repeat herself twice.
"State police detained Collins this morning."
"Officially for evidence tampering and obstruction."
"Unofficially, Captain Brooks thinks he planted the box cutter in your coat."
Relief rushed through me.
"Then I'm getting out."
"Maybe."
I hated that word.
"The prosecutor is resisting dismissal because the forged note still appears to match your handwriting."
"How?"
"Expert says it is a high-quality simulation."
"Possibly traced from multiple samples."
"Charles had access to years of my signed documents."
"Yes."
Priya opened another folder.
"More important, Elias filed an emergency probate motion using the original will."
"A judge granted temporary authority for an independent autopsy of Grant."
My hands went cold.
"They're exhuming him?"
"Today."
I had wanted this.
I had demanded the truth.
Yet the thought of Grant's coffin being opened made me nauseated.
Priya seemed to understand.
"You do not have to be there."
"I'm in jail."
"That too."
At four that afternoon, Captain Brooks came to see me personally.
She sat across the interview table and removed her hat.
"We have a problem."
I almost laughed.
"Only one?"
"The exhumation team opened Grant's grave."
Her face told me the news was bad.
"Was he there?"
"Yes."
I exhaled.
I had not realized until then that part of me expected an empty coffin.
"Preliminary examination found something."
Brooks slid a photograph across the table.
It showed a tiny sealed evidence pouch.
Inside was a fragment of translucent tubing.
"What is that?"
"A section of medical line."
"The pathologist found it tucked beneath the lining of Grant's burial suit near his shoulder."
"How would that get there?"
"It should not."
"He was never hospitalized."
"Paramedics treated him at the house, but their reports show no IV line was placed because he was already dead when they arrived."
My mouth went dry.
"Then someone put it there before he was buried."
"Maybe."
"Why?"
Brooks opened another folder.
"We checked funeral-home records."
"Grant's body was prepared by a technician named Kevin Rusk."
"Rusk quit the next morning."
"He received a wire transfer of forty thousand dollars two days later from Bluebird Holdings."
Bluebird.
Grant's last word to Martha.
The shell company in his spreadsheets.
"Where is Kevin Rusk?"
"Missing."
I leaned back.
"So somebody paid a funeral-home employee to alter Grant's body."
"That is one possibility."
"What is the other?"
Brooks's expression darkened.
"That he was paid to hide evidence someone failed to remove before death was declared."
"The lab is testing the tubing."
"For what?"
"Residue."
She stood.
"If we find something consistent with poisoning, the homicide case changes completely."
For the first time, I saw a legal path out of the nightmare.
Then Brooks's phone rang.
She answered.
Her expression changed almost immediately.
"When?"
A pause.
"Are you sure?"
Another pause.
"Lock the scene down."
She ended the call.
"What happened?"
Brooks looked at me.
"Martha Keene is gone."
My stomach dropped.
"Gone from where?"
"Protective housing."
"Two troopers were assigned outside."
"Someone triggered the building's fire alarm."
"During evacuation, Martha disappeared."
I gripped the edge of the table.
"Laurel."
"Maybe."
"Evan?"
"Still missing."
Brooks started toward the door.
I stopped her.
"Captain."
She turned.
"Charles visited me this morning."
"He told me to ask why Arthur brought a tape recorder to Miller's Ridge the day he died."
Brooks frowned.
"Why would he tell you that?"
"I don't know."
She looked thoughtful.
"Maybe he wants you to find the recording."
"Or maybe he wants Laurel to think I know where it is."
Brooks met my eyes.
That possibility was worse.
If Charles and Laurel were no longer moving together, the conspiracy was fracturing.
And trapped between them was a seventeen-year-old boy who had just learned everything he believed about his father might be a lie.
That night, a guard woke me at 2:13 a.m.
"Whitaker."
"Emergency call."
I was taken to the phone room.
The number was blocked.
I answered.
"Hello?"
For several seconds, I heard only breathing.
Then Evan whispered.
"Nora?"
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Evan, where are you?"
"I found out."
"Found out what?"
His voice broke.
"Charles is my father."
I closed my eyes.
"Where are you?"
"Mom locked me in a room."
"She thinks I don't have my phone."
"Tell me where."
"I don't know."
"There are motel signs outside."
"Old ones."
"One has a blue bird on it."
Bluebird.
Again.
Then a door opened on his end.
Evan stopped breathing.
A woman's voice spoke in the distance.
Laurel.
May you like
"Who are you talking to?"
The line went dead.
