Chapter 7 - The Voice on the Line
I walked slowly toward the foyer table, ignoring the commotion of the officers securing the back door, and picked up the phone.
My thumb hovered over the screen before I swiped to answer, pressing the speaker against my ear. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Foster?”
The voice on the other end was smooth, controlled, and distinctly unfamiliar. It carried the chilling cadence of someone who was entirely comfortable delivering catastrophic news.
“Who is this?” I demanded, my voice dropping into a hardened register.
“That’s not important right now, Megan,” the man replied, a faint, humorless chuckle ghosting through the line. “What is important is that your husband’s little real estate gamble wasn't funded by standard bank loans. Meridian Trust—the entity holding the bridge notes on your father’s estate—doesn't take kindly to having its assets frozen by local police investigations.”
My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles ached. “If you’re calling on behalf of Daniel’s creditors, you’re wasting your time. He’s currently being arrested for fraud and attempted murder.”
“Oh, we are well aware of Daniel’s current employment status,” the caller said smoothly, the amusement vanishing from his tone, replaced by razor-sharp menace. “And frankly, Daniel is expendable. But the collateral he used to secure his multi-million-dollar default isn't. Your father’s manufacturing stocks, your family trust portfolio, and the deed to this very house—they legally belong to us as of midnight, unless someone settles the principal balance in full.”
“That agreement was forged,” I snapped back, my anger overriding the cold dread pooling in my stomach. “My signature was digitally falsified. Any contract based on fraud is legally void.”
“In a federal courtroom, perhaps,” the voice countered calmly. “With months of litigation, high-priced attorneys, and public exposure. But our clients don't operate in courtrooms, Mrs. Foster. They operate in the real world. And right now, a black sedan is turning down your quiet little suburban street.”
I spun around, walking swiftly toward the front window, parting the sheer curtains just an inch.
Sure enough, a sleek, unmarked black sedan with tinted windows was idling quietly by the curb under the amber streetlamp, its headlights switched off.
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
May you like
“We want an appointment,” the caller said. “Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock sharp, at a private office in downtown Boston. Come alone. Because if you don't, our asset-recovery team won't bother with paperwork before they repossess everything your father spent a lifetime building.”
The line went dead with a sharp click.
