Chapter 3 - The Digital Footprint
The following Tuesday, I sat in the modest kitchen of our two-bedroom apartment, sipping cold coffee while Lily sat at the small wooden table coloring a picture of a blue whale. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room until my phone buzzed violently against the counter.
It was an unknown number, but the area code was local. I swiped and answered immediately.
“Is this Eleanor Alden-Foster?” a crisp, professional voice asked.
“This is Eleanor Alden,” I corrected. “Speaking.”
“Ms. Alden, my name is Arthur Pendelton. I’m the independent audio forensics specialist retained by Sterling & Vance to analyze the audio file submitted by your parents regarding Walter Alden’s estate.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Have you finished the analysis, Mr. Pendelton?”
“I have,” he replied, his tone steady and devoid of emotion. “And the results are definitive. If you’d like, I can email you the technical breakdown, but the summary is this: That recording was not spoken by Walter Alden. It was synthetically compiled using audio cloning software, stitched together from older recorded interviews and public speeches given by your father over the past five years. Furthermore, the acoustic signature of the room where the audio was captured matches the acoustics of the basement study in your parents' home, not your grandfather’s master bedroom.”
A cold shiver washed over me. They hadn't just faked it poorly; they had used my father’s own voice mixed with digital splicing to mimic Grandpa’s raspy cadence, framing it with words my father had muttered right in front of my autistic daughter.
“Thank you, Mr. Pendelton,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Please send that report directly to Mr. Vance and to my personal email.”
“Consider it done, Ms. Alden. Be prepared—this is going to cause a massive legal earthquake.”
Before I could reply, a sharp knock echoed at our front door.
I froze. Visitors were rare. My landlord knew not to bother us during the day, and I hadn't told anyone where we were staying except for my coworker at the bookstore. I walked cautiously to the door, peering through the peephole.
Standing on the welcome mat was Eric, my estranged husband. He looked disheveled, his designer tie loosened, dark circles under his eyes.
I opened the door just enough to keep the security chain latched. “What do you want, Eric?”
He pressed his palm against the heavy oak door. “Ellie, please. Let me in. We need to talk.”
“We have nothing to talk about. You abandoned us four months ago. The divorce papers are already being processed.”
“I made a mistake, okay?” His voice cracked, carrying that pathetic, defensive whine I used to mistake for vulnerability. “Things with Sarah didn't work out. She’s... she’s impossible to live with, and I realized what I threw away. Lily... how is Lily? I miss my little girl.”
Inside the living room, Lily stopped coloring. She didn't turn around, but her shoulders stiffened, her small body pulling inward. She remembered the night Eric packed his bags, the way he looked at her like she was a broken appliance.
“You don't get to miss her, Eric,” I said coldly. “You signed away your visitation rights when you walked out without looking back. Now get off my porch before I call the police for trespassing.”
“Ellie, wait!” Eric shoved his foot into the door jamb before I could close it. “Your parents called me. They’re frantic. They said you’re trying to ruin them over some stupid inheritance dispute. They said if you drop the investigation into the company, they’ll give us a massive settlement—enough to buy a house in the suburbs, put Lily in a private therapy center, everything you’ve ever wanted!”
The sheer audacity of it left me breathless. My parents hadn't just committed fraud; they were already trying to bribe the husband who had discarded us to build a united front against me.
“Tell my parents,” I whispered, staring straight into Eric’s desperate, shifty eyes, “that they’re going to lose everything. And you can tell your girlfriend that your meal ticket is about to go bankrupt.”
I slammed the door hard, sliding the deadbolt home. Through the wood, I heard Eric banging once before his footsteps hurried down the stairs.
I turned around to find Lily standing by the kitchen archway, looking up at me with eyes far too wise for a six-year-old.
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“Is Daddy gone?” she asked softly.
I walked over, knelt down, and pulled her into my arms, burying my face in her soft curls. “He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never coming back. And we don't need him.”
