Chapter 5 - The Voice Still Trapped Inside My Mother's Studio

Ethan looked terrified after handing over the photograph.

Not because of me.

Because Robert was staring at him.

“Where did you get that?”

“In your desk.”

“You went through my things?”

“I was looking for my charger.”

Robert took one step forward before Detective Sloan moved between them.

“That's enough.”

Ethan's hand shook.

“I saw it months ago. Dad kept it in an envelope with papers about Aunt Laura.”

“She wasn't your aunt,” Robert said sharply.

Ethan flinched.

I did too.

Robert had always corrected people when they called Laura my mother in front of Karen. He preferred phrases like before our family or a long time ago, as if the woman who gave birth to me were an embarrassing historical period.

Ethan stared at him.

“She was Emily's mom.”

The simplicity of it made Robert look away.

Sloan bagged the photograph. On its back, in Laura's handwriting, was a date and a short note: ROBERT CAME HOME EARLY. WOULD NOT SAY WHY.

The timestamp placed it at 9:18 on the morning of the crash.

That mattered because Robert had told me for years that he had been in Boston that entire weekend.

Mara did not celebrate the contradiction.

She wrote it down.

The answering machine from the sealed studio went to a technician. By evening, they had recovered the cassette without damaging it.

Sloan allowed Eleanor and me to listen after making a forensic copy.

The first messages were ordinary.

A gallery asking about a painting.

A pharmacy saying a prescription was ready.

A woman inviting Laura to lunch.

Then came the mechanic.

“Mrs. Carter, this is Daniel Pierce at Green Mountain Auto. I need you to call me before you drive the Volvo. I looked again at that front hose after you left. The damage is too clean. I don't think you hit debris. Please don't drive it until we replace the line.”

My fingers went numb around the edge of the table.

The next message was from Robert.

His voice was younger, but unmistakable.

“Laura, stop making this bigger than it is. I'll take care of the car Monday. We need to talk before you call your mother again.”

Nothing in the message proved he damaged the brake line.

But it proved he knew about the problem.

Sloan stopped the tape.

“There are six more messages.”

The fifth was Eleanor.

“Laura, call me. I don't care what he threatened. Bring Emily and come home.”

I turned toward her.

“You told her to leave.”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn't she?”

Eleanor's eyes filled, though no tears fell.

“Because she believed Robert would follow.”

The last recoverable message arrived late Saturday night.

No name.

A woman's voice.

“Laura, I found the transfer. He moved another two hundred thousand through Caster. I printed everything. Meet me at the courthouse Monday morning. Don't tell Robert.”

Mara looked at Sloan.

“Can you identify the caller?”

“We'll try.”

Robert's attorney demanded that we stop listening. He argued that the room had belonged to Robert after Laura's death and the tape could be privileged property.

Mara almost smiled.

“The studio was held in Laura's trust, sealed without authorization, and discovered pursuant to a preservation order. Good luck.”

Robert left before the argument ended.

Karen stayed.

She stood in the hallway with both arms folded tightly across her chest.

When Sloan finished, she asked to speak privately.

Not with Robert.

With Mara.

They went into the kitchen. I remained in the study until Karen called my name.

“Emily.”

I stepped inside.

She looked exhausted. The polished woman who had smiled through the window while I froze in the snow was gone. I did not feel sorry for her.

“I need to tell you something,” she said.

“About the fire?”

“About the money.”

Mara sat beside her with a legal pad.

Karen explained that for years Robert had asked her to sign routine household papers. Tax acknowledgments. Trust maintenance invoices. Property insurance forms.

“I didn't read most of them.”

“That was convenient,” I said.

She accepted the hit.

“Yes.”

Three months earlier, a bank had called her about an account she did not recognize. Robert told her it was a clerical error.

The account was in the name of K. Caster.

Mara's pen stopped.

Karen's face tightened.

“I never used that name.”

“Did you authorize payments from it?”

“No.”

“Did you know Caster Holdings existed?”

“No.”

I thought of all the times Karen had told me to be grateful. All the times she had helped Robert make the house feel smaller around me.

“You knew he opened my mail.”

“Yes.”

“You knew he declined Hawthorne.”

She hesitated.

“Yes.”

The answer hurt more than I expected.

“But you didn't know about the money?”

“No.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn't,” she said.

That silenced me.

Karen reached into her handbag and removed her phone.

“I found something after Robert left.”

She opened a photograph she had taken of a page inside their home safe.

It was a list of payments.

Storage unit.

Private investigator.

Attorney.

And one recurring payment every December to a man named Daniel Pierce.

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The same Daniel Pierce whose voice had warned my mother not to drive her car.

For seventeen years, my father had been paying the mechanic who knew the brake line had been cut.