Chapter 6 - The Restricted Call
The shrill, piercing ring of the landline cut through the kitchen like a siren, the small digital screen flashing RESTRICTED in glowing amber numbers.
Daniel stared at the phone as if it were a venomous snake coiled against the floral wallpaper. His hands remained at his sides, trembling slightly, while the sound echoed off the wood-paneled walls of Grandpa Elias’s kitchen.
Grandpa didn't wait for hesitation. He stepped past my father, his heavy boots clicking against the linoleum, and snatched the receiver off the hook with a rough, practiced motion.
"Elias," he barked into the mouthpiece, his tone a wall of unyielding steel.
I held my breath, sitting rigidly at the kitchen table. Across from me, Daniel looked down at his own calloused hands, his chest heaving under the weight of the afternoon’s cascading disasters.
"Yeah, I'm listening," Grandpa said, his sharp eyes narrowing as he listened to whoever was speaking on the other end. For nearly a minute, he didn't say another word, his jaw working rhythmically while the faint crackle of static hissed through the receiver.
Finally, Grandpa let out a short, cold breath. "And you're certain of that name?"
Another pause.
"All right. Send the hard copies to the county sheriff's office. I'll make sure my son sees them."
Grandpa slammed the receiver back onto its cradle with a sharp thud that rattled the kitchen wall. He turned around slowly, his face drained of color, lines of deep fatigue etching themselves around his mouth.
"Who was that, Dad?" Daniel asked, his voice cracking as he stood up from the wooden bench. "Was it the precinct? Did Miranda post bail?"
"That wasn't the precinct, Daniel," Grandpa said, his voice dropping into a heavy, ominous register. He walked over to the table and rested his palms flat against the scarred wood, looking straight at my father. "That was Judge Halloway's clerk. The federal accounts Miranda was draining? They weren't just routed to a shell company in the Caymans."
Daniel frowned, stepping closer. "What do you mean? Whose name is on the secondary beneficiary line?"
Grandpa didn't answer right away. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a small, folded piece of paper where he had scribbled a name during the call, and slid it across the table.
May you like
Daniel looked down at the paper. As his eyes read the printed name, the blood rushed completely out of his face, and he stumbled backward, his hip crashing hard against the counter.
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