Chapter 7 - THE VOICE OF A DEAD MAN
My father's handwriting blurred through my tears.
I read the sentence again.
The man responsible for my death is probably standing beside you.
Grant stood near the doorway.
Victor was downstairs.
Eleanor waited beside the window.
I looked from one to the other.
“Who did he mean?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“I don't know.”
I continued reading.
Emily, there are people who smile while they destroy lives. They will tell you they are protecting you. They will call their silence love.
My hands began to shake.
Trust the music. Trust what I taught you. And never give the evidence to a man who claims he is doing this for the Whitmore name.
I looked at Grant.
His expression was grim.
“Your father didn't trust my family,” he said.
“No.”
“Maybe he was right.”
I hadn't expected that answer.
Eleanor pointed toward the cassette.
“Play it.”
Grant found an old player in the cabinet.
The tape crackled.
Then I heard a voice I hadn't heard in twelve years.
My father's voice.
“Emily, sweetheart. If you ever hear this, I need you to remember something.”
I covered my mouth.
He sounded exactly the same.
Warm.
Gentle.
Alive.
“I'm sorry I won't be there for every birthday. Every Christmas. Every dance.”
A sob escaped me.
Grant moved closer but didn't touch me.
“There's a man named Charles Mercer. He's been using Thomas Whitmore's companies to move money. Thomas wants to stop him, but Mercer has people everywhere.”
The tape hissed.
“Someone inside the estate has been feeding Mercer information. I don't know who. But I know how to find out.”
A pause.
Then my father's voice lowered.
“The proof is hidden in the final eight counts of our tango.”
Grant frowned.
“What does that mean?”
I wiped my cheeks.
“Dad used to make me practice one sequence over and over.”
“The Rosewood Turn?” Eleanor asked.
I nodded.
“He said it was the most important part.”
The recording continued.
“Emily, if you remember the steps, you'll find what I left behind.”
Then the tape ended.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Grant finally broke the silence.
“Your father hid evidence inside a dance?”
I looked toward the mirror.
“Not inside the dance.”
I began counting softly.
“One. Two. Three. Four.”
Then I turned toward the wall.
“Five. Six. Seven. Eight.”
On the eighth count, my heel touched a loose floorboard.
A hollow sound echoed.
Grant knelt.
He lifted the board.
Beneath it sat a metal box.
Inside were bank records, photographs, and a handwritten ledger.
Grant opened the ledger.
His face drained of color.
“What?” I asked.
He turned it toward me.
The first page contained a list of payments.
Millions of dollars.
Shell companies.
Offshore accounts.
And one signature repeated again and again.
Not Charles Mercer.
May you like
Not Thomas Whitmore.
Eleanor Whitmore.
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