Chapter 3 - GHOSTS IN THE RECORDING
That night, after the house fell completely silent and the girls were sound asleep, I sat at the kitchen counter with a cup of black coffee and the digital recorder.
My fingers hovered over the play button. A part of me was terrified of what I was about to hear—terrified of hearing my sweet daughter’s weakened voice being degraded by the man she had trusted with her life. But I owed Rose the truth.
I pressed play.
A harsh hiss of static filled the quiet room, followed by the sound of a door slamming.
"...You're being ridiculous, Rose," Arthur's crisp, arrogant voice boomed through the tiny speaker. "I’m not spending another dime on your alternative treatments. The insurance payout will cover the rest of your hospice, and that's it."
"Arthur, please..." Rose’s voice was faint, raspy, strained by the illness that was draining her life away. "The money in that trust... it was left by my mother for the girls' education. You can't touch it."
"I can and I will," Arthur sneered. The sound of footsteps echoed on the recording, coming closer to her bedside. "You think anyone is going to care about a piece of paper your mother signed twenty years ago? I’m their father. I have full control over the estate once you’re gone. Evelyn and I have already picked out the property in Buckhead. Your little trust fund will pay for the down payment."
"They are your daughters..." Rose sobbed softly.
"They are a distraction," Arthur snapped. "They remind me of you. Once you're buried, I'm handing them over to the state or pushing them off onto your old man. Charles is poor enough that he'll probably crumble under the financial strain anyway."
I slammed my fist onto the table, rattling the coffee mug. Tears of rage blurred my vision. The arrogance, the sheer malice of the man was staggering. He had watched my daughter wither away while actively planning to rob his own children of their future and discard them like trash.
I picked up the leather journal and opened it.
Rose’s handwriting, usually so elegant and flowing, grew shaky toward the final pages. But the information was meticulously organized. Page after page contained dates, amounts, account numbers, and names of shell corporations Arthur had created over the past eighteen months.
Arthur was a senior partner at an investment firm in Savannah. He had been siphon funds not only from Rose’s family trust, but also from his own firm to fund a lavish lifestyle for his mistress, Evelyn Vance.
At the bottom of the last written page, Rose had penned a message directly to me:
Dad, If you are reading this, I am gone, and Arthur has shown his true face to the world. Do not grieve for me long, Dad—spend that energy protecting my baby girls. The envelope contains the original deed to the mountain cabin my mother left us, along with the master audit keys for Arthur’s offshore account. He thinks he wiped my laptop, but I backed everything up on a hidden drive. He plans to marry Evelyn on the first of next month—less than three weeks from my funeral. Stop him, Dad. Don't let him build a life on the ashes of ours. I love you forever. Rose.
May you like
I leaned back, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The grief was still there, a cavernous hole in my chest, but now it was fortified by purpose. Arthur thought he had won. He thought he had dumped his responsibilities onto a grieving old man and walked away clean into a new life.
He had no idea what was coming for him.
