Chapter 4 - THE DEAD MAN’S ACCOUNT
By one o’clock, the Whitmore estate was officially a crime scene.
By one-fifteen, two news vans were outside the hospital.
By one-thirty, someone had leaked my name.
RETIRED FEDERAL AGENT ASSAULTS SON-IN-LAW DURING FAMILY DISPUTE.
The headline was perfect.
No drugging.
No restraints.
No haircut.
No basement.
Just me.
Exactly the kind of pressure campaign I had seen wealthy defendants use for decades.
I didn’t care.
Emily woke at 1:42.
Barely.
I was beside her.
Her hair was uneven where Margaret had cut through it. A nurse had cleaned the blood from her lip.
She looked at me and started crying.
Not loudly.
That made it worse.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I should’ve called sooner.”
I took her hand.
“You called when you could.”
Her eyes moved toward the door.
“Is Evan here?”
“No.”
She relaxed slightly.
“What did you find?”
I asked.
She stared at the ceiling.
“At first, I thought he was cheating.”
“Evan?”
She nodded.
“He kept leaving after midnight. Taking calls outside. His mother covered for him.”
“What changed?”
“I followed him.”
“Where?”
“The basement.”
Her fingers tightened around mine.
“They had an office hidden behind the wine cellar.”
“What was there?”
“Boxes. Old files. Bank records. Photos.”
“Photos of what?”
“People.”
She swallowed.
“Judges. Politicians. Federal agents.”
A chill moved through me.
“Did you see my name?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
She looked at me.
“Dad, they had pictures of you from before Mom died.”
My breath stopped.
My wife, Rebecca, had died thirteen years ago from a brain aneurysm.
Sudden.
Devastating.
Supposedly natural.
“What kind of pictures?”
“You meeting people.”
“Work meetings?”
“I don’t know.”
She hesitated.
“One was outside our old house.”
I said nothing.
“Dad?”
“When?”
“The date was two days before Mom died.”
The room became very quiet.
I forced my voice steady.
“Emily, what did you do after you found the files?”
“I took pictures.”
“With your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“I uploaded them.”
“To where?”
A weak smile appeared.
“You taught me never to keep evidence in one place.”
My daughter.
Even terrified.
Even drugged.
She had remembered.
“Cloud account?”
She shook her head.
“Not mine.”
“Whose?”
“Mom’s.”
I stared at her.
Rebecca’s old email account.
The one I had never closed.
The one I hadn’t logged into for years because seeing her name hurt too much.
“You remembered the password?”
“You used the same one for everything when I was little.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
Then Emily’s expression changed.
“There was one more thing.”
“What?”
“A video.”
“Of what?”
“Arthur Whitmore.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
I stood slowly.
“You’re sure?”
“He was older, but it was him. Evan called him Dad.”
My daughter closed her eyes.
“I confronted Evan.”
“And that’s when they started drugging you?”
She nodded.
“They said I was sick. Margaret brought in a doctor. Evan told everyone I was paranoid.”
Her eyes opened again.
“Dad…”
“Yes?”
“I heard Arthur say your name.”
“What did he say?”
Emily looked at me with fear I had never seen before.
“He said they should’ve finished you when they had the chance.”
My phone buzzed.
A new voicemail.
No caller ID.
I played it.
A man’s voice.
Older.
Calm.
Familiar.
“Hello, Daniel.”
Fourteen years vanished.
I knew that voice.
May you like
Arthur Whitmore continued:
“You always were difficult to kill.”
