Chapter 16 - The Voice in the Dark
The hum of the highway tires sounded loud in the cabin of my car. Margaret’s words hovered in the air, toxic and calculated, engineered to strike the exact nerve of my deepest, most agonizing guilt.
*After you couldn't save her.*
For months following Emily’s death, that thought had haunted every waking hour. I had spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if a different specialist, a faster ambulance, or being home more often could have added another week, another day, another hour to Emily's life. Margaret had known that guilt because she had fed it, drop by drop, from the day of the funeral.
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. But the man who had fallen for her guilt trips was gone. The man who had found his sons trapped in a dark pantry, terrified of crying, had taken his place.
"Margaret," I said, my voice dead calm. "This call is being recorded."
A sharp intake of breath hissed through the speaker. Her frail, trembling tone vanished in an instant, replaced by that cold, familiar venom.
"You think you’re clever, David," she spat, all pretense of medical distress gone. "You think that nanny and a few scratch marks on a door will protect you? My family built this town. My grandfather funded the court system you’re running to. You are a clerk with a logistics company who got lucky marrying my daughter."
"Emily didn't marry me because of luck, Margaret," I said evenly. "She married me because I loved her, not the family name. And she left an audio recording from St. Jude’s. The one where you threatened to cut off her medical care if she didn't sign your addendum."
Total, suffocating silence fell over the line. For five long seconds, only Margaret’s shallow, ragged breathing came through.
"Where did you get that?" she demanded, her voice shaking with genuine panic for the first time. "Croft gave that to you. That miserable coward swore he destroyed his personal notes."
"He didn't give it to me," I replied, feeling a grim satisfaction. "Emily did. She left it in a safety deposit box with Lena’s name on it. She outsmarted you, Margaret. Even while she was dying, she saw right through you."
"David, listen to me—"
"Do not call this number again," I said coldly. "Every word you just said has been logged. I'll see you in court, Margaret. If your heart holds up."
I disconnected the call and tossed the phone into the passenger seat.
My heart was pounding, but my mind was clearer than it had been in months. Margaret’s reaction had confirmed everything. Gerald Croft hadn't destroyed his files. He had kept them. And Margaret was terrified of what he had documented.
I pushed through the night, crossing state lines as the rain began to fall in sheets against the windshield. By dawn, the rocky coastline of Maine emerged through the thick morning fog.
Camden was a sleepy coastal town, smelling of pine needles, saltwater, and damp earth. Following Arthur’s directions, I drove three miles past the town limits onto a winding gravel road that led deep into the coastal woods.
At the end of the road stood a modest, weathered cedar-shake cottage overlooking the gray waters of Penobscot Bay. A thin trail of gray smoke drifted from the stone chimney.
I parked beside an ancient wood-paneled station wagon, stepped out into the biting morning air, and walked up the wooden porch steps. Before I could knock, the heavy oak door swung open.
A man in his early seventies stood there, wearing a thick wool sweater and heavy corduroy trousers. He had thick white hair, sharp blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and a deeply lined face that looked carved from granite.
He looked at me, then down at the briefcase in my hand. His eyes widened slightly with immediate recognition.
"You have Emily's eyes," the man said softly, his voice gravelly and slow. "You're David."
"Mr. Croft," I said, extending my hand. "I drove through the night from Pennsylvania."
May you like
Gerald Croft stepped aside, holding the door open. "Come inside, David. The coffee is hot. I’ve been expecting someone to come down this road for two years."
***
