Chapter 5 - CATHERINE'S LAST RECORDING
The digital recorder was older than the security system in my office. The investigator arranged for a forensic technician to extract its contents and create a verified copy. We gathered in Diane's conference room: the investigator, Diane, Nathan, and me. Nathan had been invited because the recording might refer to his father, but he agreed not to interrupt or speculate while it played.
Catherine's voice came through with a faint background hum.
“Richard, if you're hearing this, I hope it means you've finally looked at the accounts yourself.”
I gripped the arms of my chair.
“I wanted to tell you in person. I tried several times. Every time I began, Thomas called with another urgent problem, or you told me the company was under too much pressure to question the people who kept it running. I know you trust him. I trusted him too.”
There was a pause, then the sound of paper being moved.
“David Vale brought me copies of the transfer records. He believes someone has been using his credentials to approve payments through companies that don't provide real services. The original server logs could prove it, but the files have been removed from the audit system. I asked Thomas about it. He said David was stealing and trying to hide his tracks.”
Catherine's voice grew quieter.
“I don't know which of them is telling the truth. That's why I need the original logs. But Thomas knew which accounts I had found before I told him. He said I should stop asking questions if I wanted Emily to grow up in a stable home.”
I closed my eyes.
The recording continued.
“Yesterday, I took the car to the garage because the brakes felt wrong. The mechanic said the car had not been scheduled for inspection, even though the company records say it was. He refused to put anything in writing. I asked him to check the brakes anyway. He said he would call me.”
The sound of a door closing interrupted her. When Catherine spoke again, she sounded frightened.
“Someone has been following me. I don't know if it's connected to the accounts or if I'm becoming paranoid. I don't want to scare Richard without proof. But if anything happens to me, please don't accept the first explanation you hear.”
A long silence followed.
Then Catherine said, “Thomas just called. He says the car is ready. I never gave him permission to collect it.”
The recording ended.
No one spoke.
The investigator asked the technician to preserve the file and document its metadata. The recording did not prove that Thomas had sabotaged Catherine's car, but it established that she had reported a brake problem, that the inspection records were questionable, and that Thomas had been involved in collecting the vehicle without her permission.
Nathan stared at the table.
“My father tried to tell the board the same thing,” he said. “They said he was blaming everyone else.”
“Did he have the original server logs?” I asked.
“He believed he did. Before his arrest, he told me the backup was stored outside the company network. I searched for it for years.”
“Where?”
Nathan hesitated. “He gave me a clue. He said the truth was stored where the company kept its oldest promises. I thought he meant the archive.”
Diane considered the words. “Could he have meant the original incorporation records or the trust documents?”
“Possibly.”
The investigator said the technical team would review the ledger and the old vault contents for any reference to the backup. He also requested that Nathan provide the correspondence from his father. The next step was to find Peter Sloan, the mechanic who had allegedly refused to document the brake problem.
I could barely hear the procedural details. Catherine's voice kept repeating in my head: If anything happens to me, please don't accept the first explanation you hear.
I had accepted it. I had accepted the police report, the insurance assessment, and Thomas's reassurance that the crash had been a terrible accident. I had buried my wife and then buried the questions she had left behind.
That afternoon, I went home and sat in Catherine's study until the light faded. Emily came in carrying a picture she had drawn at school. It showed three people holding hands beneath a yellow sun: Emily, Catherine, and me. There was a fourth figure in the corner, a small shape with a dark hat.
“Who's that?” I asked.
Emily looked at the drawing. “The man who came to the house.”
“Was he wearing a hat?”
She nodded. “He came before the wedding, too. I saw him from the stairs. He was talking to Vanessa near the study door.”
“Did you hear what they said?”
“Vanessa said, ‘If he doesn't sign, we lose everything.’ The man said, ‘Then make sure he signs before he starts asking about the crash.’”
My chest tightened. “The crash?”
Emily nodded. “Then Vanessa saw me and told me to go upstairs.”
I took a slow breath. “Thank you for telling me. You did the right thing.”
“Even though you didn't believe me before?”
The question was quiet, but it demanded an honest answer.
“Even then,” I said. “You were right to tell me. I was wrong not to listen.”
She studied me, then placed the drawing on the desk. “I don't want you to slap me again.”
“I will never do that again. If I am angry, I will step away and get help. You should never have to be afraid of me.”
Emily leaned against my arm. It was a small gesture, but I did not mistake it for complete forgiveness. Trust would have to grow back through many ordinary days.
Later, Diane called with an update. Peter Sloan had been located. He was living in a retirement community two states away. He had agreed to speak with investigators but asked for a lawyer before giving a formal statement.
“There's another issue,” Diane added. “The company records show that Thomas requested a duplicate of the inspection report three days after Catherine died. The request was processed by a clerk who no longer works there. The original report is missing from the garage archive.”
“Can we recover it?”
“We're trying.”
I looked toward the study door. Thomas had appeared in the house as if he owned every room, every memory, and every piece of paper. For years, I had mistaken his confidence for competence and his control for loyalty.
The next call came from the estate manager. Vanessa's belongings had been removed from the guest suite. She had left through the service entrance with a driver just before dawn, carrying two suitcases. The driver said Thomas had arranged the car.
Vanessa was gone.
I asked the manager to preserve the room and report the departure to the police. The investigators began tracing the vehicle. We had not yet established whether Vanessa was fleeing, being moved for her own protection, or following Thomas's instructions.
But the timing told me something.
Thomas had learned that I had opened Catherine's vault. Vanessa had vanished. And the man in the hat had warned me about the crash.
I called Nathan.
“We need to find Vanessa before my brother does.”
Nathan's answer came without hesitation.
“Then stop looking for where she would hide. Look for where Thomas needs her to be.”
“Where is that?”
“Somewhere she can sign something.”
I glanced at the documents on the desk.
The wedding had been stopped before I signed the estate plan. But perhaps Thomas had another document ready, one that would not require a wedding at all.
For the first time, I understood that the fake pregnancy might have been only the visible part of the trap.
The investigator asked me to provide a timeline of Catherine's final month. I wrote down every conversation I could remember, including the argument about the company books and the afternoon she asked me to inspect the garage invoice. At the time, I had told her I was too busy and asked her to trust Thomas. Writing it down made the memory feel worse, not better. It was not one spectacular betrayal. It was a sequence of small refusals, each one easy to excuse in the moment.
I also remembered that Catherine had asked our housekeeper to keep a package safe. The housekeeper had retired and moved to another state, but the investigator located her through the estate's old payroll records. She agreed to speak by video call. She remembered Catherine handing her a sealed envelope and asking her to keep it away from Thomas. A week after the crash, the housekeeper was told the package had been collected by a member of the family. She had assumed it was me.
It had not been me.
The investigator added the account to the case file and arranged a formal interview. The envelope itself had not been found, and the housekeeper could not identify who collected it with certainty. Still, her recollection gave us another avenue to pursue. If the package had contained the original garage records or the missing server logs, Thomas might have taken it before anyone understood what it meant.
That evening, I went to Emily's room and found her arranging her stuffed animals in a circle around the music box. She said she was making a meeting where everyone had to take turns talking. I sat on the floor and asked if I could join. She gave me a place near the edge.
“You have to wait until it's your turn,” she warned.
May you like
“I will.”
I kept the promise. For ten minutes, I listened to her give each animal a different voice and explain why one of them was afraid. It was a small game, but I realized how much of the past week had been defined by adults speaking over a child. I did not interrupt her once.
