Chapter 5 - THE EVIDENCE IN THE WALLS
At 4:00 a.m., I sat at the small wooden desk in my staff room with the satellite phone laid out on a clean towel.
I am not a computer expert, but before my life blew up in Ohio, I had worked five years as a paralegal for a criminal defense firm in Columbus. I knew how evidence worked. I knew that a black phone found in a child's room meant nothing if it couldn't be tied directly to Edmund's personal devices or bank accounts.
If I simply walked up to Alessandro Moretti right now and handed him this phone, Edmund would claim I planted it. He would use his twenty-three years of loyal service to frame me—a broke, disgraced runaway mother with a fake background—and Alessandro would believe him.
I needed the bridge.
I grabbed my small sewing kit, a pair of tweezers, and a high-powered magnifying glass I used for reading fine print on contracts.
I carefully popped open the tiny SIM card tray on the side of the satellite phone.
Inside sat a custom micro-SIM card stamped with a faint, serial code printed in blue ink: SAT-8890-LX.
I pulled out my personal laptop—an old, battered ThinkPad I kept hidden beneath the floorboards of our wardrobe—and connected to an encrypted virtual private network.
I searched the serial code through an open-source telecommunications tracking database used by maritime shipping companies.
The SIM card belonged to an encrypted satellite communications contract registered to an offshore corporation in Saint Kitts: Vanguard Maritime Services.
I opened a secondary browser tab and cross-referenced Vanguard Maritime Services with public corporate registries.
The primary shell company holding the shares of Vanguard was registered to a trust account in the Cayman Islands.
And the sole authorized signatory on that trust account was a man named Edward White—an alias Edmund Whitmore had used to purchase three luxury real estate properties in Miami and a ninety-foot yacht currently docked in the Bahamas.
He had been stealing from Alessandro Moretti for over six years.
Total embezzled funds: Forty-two million dollars.
My hands were shaking as I took photos of the laptop screen with my phone, saving the files to three separate cloud storage drives and a USB flash drive I hid inside Emma’s teddy bear.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the hallway outside my room.
I snapped the laptop shut, shoved it under the duvet, and slipped the satellite phone back into my pocket.
A low, gentle knock sounded at my door.
I took a deep breath, composed my face, and opened it three inches.
Edmund Whitmore stood in the hallway.
He was dressed in a sharp navy suit, his hair perfectly combed back, smelling of expensive bay rum cologne and peppermint. He held a brass ring with three master keys in his right hand.
“Ms. Carter,” he said smoothly, offering his pleasant, grandfatherly smile. “I saw the light beneath your door.”
“I was just getting a glass of water for Emma,” I said, keeping my voice flat, unbothered.
Edmund’s eyes swept over my shoulder, taking in the small room, the unmade bed, and the wardrobe.
“A terrible storm last night,” Edmund murmured, stepping half an inch closer to the door frame. “It seems poor Isabella had quite a severe breakdown. We had to dispose of several broken items from her room.”
“I heard,” I replied. “Margaret told me.”
Edmund’s pale gray eyes locked onto mine. The smile on his lips didn't reach his eyes. It never did.
“You're a very attentive mother, Ms. Carter,” Edmund said softly. “And a very hard worker. But I’ve noticed your little girl wandering the second-floor corridor late at night.”
“She gets bad dreams sometimes.”
“Of course,” Edmund nodded sympathetically. “Children have vivid imaginations. They see things that aren't there. They hear things that aren't real.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper. “And sometimes, Ms. Carter, when people pay too much attention to things that don't concern them... they find themselves without a job. Or without a safe place to live.”
The threat was clear. Direct. Unmistakable.
I didn't blink. I had spent three years surviving a man who beat me with a leather belt whenever his sports bets failed. Edmund Whitmore was just a coward in a tailored suit.
“I understand completely, Mr. Whitmore,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I only care about taking care of my daughter.”
Edmund searched my face for any sign of fear. When he found none, a faint flicker of annoyance crossed his brow.
“Good,” he said, tapping his brass key against his knuckles. “Mr. Moretti will be leaving for the Manhattan office at eight sharp. Please ensure the main dining room is prepped by seven.”
“It will be,” I said.
He turned and walked away down the corridor, his shoes clicking softly against the marble.
I closed the door, locked it, and backed against the wood.
It was 4:45 a.m.
May you like
I had three hours before Alessandro Moretti left for Manhattan.
And I was going to make sure he never reached the city.
