Chapter 4: The Message From a Dead Man
James read the message twice.
Then a third time.
*STOP ASKING PATRICIA ABOUT THE MONEY. YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SHE'S BEEN PROTECTING YOU FROM.*
The phone vibrated again in his hand.
A second message appeared.
*ASK HER WHAT HAPPENED THE NIGHT MICHAEL DIED.*
For a moment, the living room seemed to lose all its color.
James could hear the faint crackle of the fireplace, the distant hum of the refrigerator, and the uneven breathing of his grandmother behind him.
Michael.
His younger brother had been dead for two years.
A drunk driver had struck Michael's car on a rainy highway outside Columbus, Ohio. The police had called James at 11:40 p.m. He remembered standing barefoot in the kitchen, gripping the counter while a stranger's voice explained that there had been an accident.
He remembered Patricia holding him afterward.
He remembered her telling him that everything would eventually feel normal again.
Now she was standing beside the Christmas tree, staring at his phone as if she'd just watched a ghost walk through the front door.
James lowered the screen.
“What happened the night Michael died?””
Patricia's lips parted.
“James, not now.””
“Not now?””
“Please. Your grandmother needs her medicine. The girls are upset. We should handle one thing at a time.””
“You just told me you sent money to my dead brother. Someone has my number and is threatening me. You're going to answer my question.””
Maya stepped closer to Zoe.
Evelyn pressed one hand against the arm of her chair.
Patricia looked toward the windows, then back at her husband.
“I didn't say I sent money to Michael.””
“You said his name.””
“I said someone was using his name.””
“Who?””
“I don't know.””
James held up the phone.
“Then how does this person know about him? How do they know what happened that night?””
“I don't know, James!””
Her voice cracked.
He watched her carefully.
There was fear in her face, but it wasn't the fear of someone who had just discovered a stranger knew a private detail.
It was the fear of someone who had hoped that detail would never be spoken aloud.
“Give me your phone,” he said.
Patricia clutched her handbag.
“Why?””
“Because we're going to look at your messages.””
“No.””
The answer came so quickly that James barely had time to process it.
“No?”” he repeated.
“Those are private.””
“You want privacy after money disappeared from our household account?””
“My personal messages have nothing to do with this.””
“Then you shouldn't have a problem showing me.””
Patricia backed away.
“I am not handing you my phone so you can go through every conversation I've ever had.””
James looked at Maya.
“Sweetheart, take Grandma to the kitchen for a minute. Get her some water.””
Maya nodded.
“Come on, Grandma.””
Evelyn resisted.
“I don't want you two fighting because of me.””
James crouched beside her.
“We're not fighting because of you. We're trying to understand what's happened.””
Evelyn looked into his eyes.
“Promise me you'll be careful.””
He squeezed her hand.
“I promise.””
Maya helped Evelyn stand, and Zoe followed them into the kitchen. Their footsteps faded down the hallway.
James waited until they were out of sight.
Then he faced his wife.
“Start talking.””
Patricia sank onto the sofa.
For several seconds, she said nothing. She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, pulled it free, and wound it around her finger.
“Michael called me the night he died,” she finally whispered.
James stopped breathing for a beat.
“What?””
“He called me around nine.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“You were asleep.””
“I was at home that night. I wasn't asleep at nine.””
Patricia looked down.
“You were in the basement working. I didn't want to interrupt you.””
James remembered that night. He had been reviewing a contract at the dining table, not working in the basement. He had gone upstairs around ten and found Patricia already in bed.
He had assumed she was tired.
“What did Michael want?””
“He needed help.””
“With what?””
“Money.””
James shook his head.
“Michael had a job. He had insurance. He had his own savings.””
“He was having problems.””
“What problems?””
Patricia's eyes filled again.
“He said he'd made a mistake. He was afraid someone would find out.””
James felt a cold pressure building behind his ribs.
“What kind of mistake?””
“He wouldn't tell me everything. He said he needed a few thousand dollars to settle something before the end of the week.””
“And you gave it to him?””
“I didn't have the money.””
“So what did you do?””
Patricia wiped her face.
“I told him I'd ask you.””
James stared at her.
“You never asked me.””
“I know.””
“Why?””
“Because Michael begged me not to.””
James took one slow step toward the sofa.
“My brother was in trouble, and you decided to keep it from me?””
“He said you'd be angry.””
“Angry about what?””
“I don't know!””
“You keep saying you don't know. But you seem to know an awful lot about a conversation you supposedly couldn't understand.””
Patricia flinched.
James turned away, dragging a hand across his face.
He remembered Michael's last voicemail. A short message sent that afternoon, asking if James was free to talk over the weekend.
James had been busy. He'd replied that they could catch up on Sunday.
Michael never made it to Sunday.
“What happened after he called you?”” James asked.
Patricia's fingers twisted together.
“I told him I couldn't help. He said he understood.””
“And then?””
“Then he called again.””
“When?””
“About half an hour later.””
James turned sharply.
“You spoke to him twice?””
Patricia nodded.
“What did he say the second time?””
“He was upset. He said he'd found another way to handle it.””
“Did he tell you what that meant?””
“No.””
James watched her.
“Did you see him that night?””
Patricia's silence lasted too long.
“Patricia.””
She looked up.
“Yes.””
The word barely escaped her mouth.
James felt as if the room had tilted.
“You saw my brother the night he died?””
“He came to the house.””
“Here?””
She nodded.
“When?””
“A little after ten.””
James stared at her.
“I was home.””
“I know.””
“Where was I?””
“You'd gone upstairs.””
“That doesn't answer my question.””
Patricia began crying harder.
“He came through the side door. I met him in the kitchen. We argued.””
“About the money?””
“Yes.””
James's mind raced backward through that night. He remembered hearing a car outside. He remembered Patricia saying she'd been checking the front door because she'd forgotten to bring in a package.
He had accepted the explanation without thinking.
“Did you give him money?””
“No.””
“Did you tell him where he could get money?””
“No.””
“Did you tell him to leave?””
She covered her face.
“Yes.””
James stared at her for a long moment.
Then he asked the question that had been growing inside him.
“What time did he leave?””
Patricia looked up through her tears.
“Ten forty-five.””
James pulled his phone from his pocket.
The accident report had given the approximate time of the crash as 11:18 p.m.
Michael's car had been found less than twenty minutes from their house.
James's voice became dangerously quiet.
“Why did you never tell the police you saw him that night?””
Patricia stood abruptly.
“Because I didn't want them asking questions about our family!””
“Questions about what?””
“I didn't know what he'd been involved in!””
“So you let the police believe he had simply driven away from his apartment?””
“I was scared!””
“Of what?””
Patricia backed against the mantel.
“Of losing everything!””
James stared at her.
Then he noticed something on the coffee table.
A small black notebook had slipped from Patricia's handbag when she'd thrown it onto the sofa. Its elastic strap had come loose, exposing several handwritten names and amounts.
James picked it up.
Patricia lunged forward.
“Don't touch that!””
He stepped away.
The first page contained a list of dates, followed by dollar amounts.
The second page contained a name.
*MICHAEL CARTER — $18,500.*
Beneath it was another entry.
*J. CARTER — $42,000.*
James felt his fingers go numb.
He looked up slowly.
“What is this?””
Patricia's face had turned ashen.
“James, give me the notebook.””
“What is my name doing here?””
She reached for him again.
He pulled the notebook against his chest.
“Answer me!””
Her voice broke.
“It's not what you think.””
James looked down at the figure beside his own name.
Forty-two thousand dollars.
That was almost exactly the amount he had received from Michael's life insurance policy after the accident.
The money had been deposited into a separate account James had barely touched. He'd intended to use it to help Evelyn with her medical expenses and eventually set aside something for the girls.
He hadn't told Patricia the full amount.
He hadn't needed to.
He'd assumed the insurance company would handle everything privately.
James opened the notebook to the next page.
A date was written beside the figure.
The date the insurance payout had arrived.
Then he saw a line underneath it.
*FINAL PAYMENT DUE BEFORE CHRISTMAS.*
His phone vibrated again.
This time, the message contained a photograph.
It showed Michael standing outside a brick building, wearing the same gray jacket he'd worn on the night of his death.
Someone had written a date across the bottom.
Two days before the crash.
James looked at his wife.
“Who took this picture?””
Patricia's knees seemed to weaken.
“I don't know.””
“Who is demanding money from us?””
She shook her head.
“James, please—”
He held up the photograph.
“Who is still collecting money in Michael's name?””
Patricia looked toward the kitchen, where their daughters were trying to comfort Evelyn.
Then she whispered the words that made James understand this wasn't simply a story about stolen medicine money.
“Someone believes your brother didn't die by accident.””
And before James could respond, a car horn sounded outside.
Patricia looked toward the front window.
All the color drained from her face.
A dark sedan was parked across the street.
The driver's window lowered.
A man in a black coat lifted his phone and pointed it directly at the house.
Then James's phone rang.
May you like
The caller ID displayed a name he had not seen in two years.
*MICHAEL CARTER.*
