My son calls me at the same time every night and asks, «Are you alone?» If I say yes, he hangs up. If I say no, he insists on knowing who’s with me. Last night, I lied and told him I was alone. I never imagined that would save me…
«You want me to send someone out?» Daniels asked.
«No, I’m safe now. I’m with a friend, but I wanted it documented in case there are further problems.»
«Albert giving you trouble? I know you two have had your differences since Robert passed.»
Had we? I thought we were fine. Distant, perhaps, but fine. How much had I missed? Wrapped up in my own grief.
«Just document it, please, Sheriff. I’ll come by tomorrow to give a formal statement.»
After I hung up, Thornton drove in silence for several minutes. We were heading toward Burlington, the lights of the small towns flickering past.
Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of a 24-hour diner, one of those chrome and neon places that looked frozen in time. «Coffee,» he said. «And conversation. Inside, where there are witnesses and cameras.»
Smart. I was beginning to trust this man’s judgment.
The diner was nearly empty, just a trucker at the counter and a waitress who looked too tired to care about a woman in a nightgown covered by a blanket. We took a corner booth, and Thornton ordered coffee for both of us.
When the waitress left, he opened his briefcase and pulled out a thick file folder.
«Before I show you these documents,» he said, «I need to explain something. William and Catherine Morse died six months ago. Their car went off a bridge in Maine during a storm. The police ruled it an accident.»
He paused. «I’m not convinced it was.»
My coffee cup froze halfway to my lips. «You think they were murdered?»
«I think they knew something dangerous. And I think your husband knew it too. He slid a document across the table. This is William Morse’s statement to me, recorded two weeks before he died. He knew he was in danger. He wanted to make sure certain information reached you if anything happened to him.»
I picked up the document with shaking hands. It was a typed transcript, legal and official-looking, but the words were anything but formal.
«My name is William Morse. I am 78 years old and of sound mind. This statement is made voluntarily and witnessed by James Thornton, attorney at law.»
«In 1992, I was a senior partner in a private investment firm. We specialized in venture capital, but we also engaged in certain irregular transactions, transactions that involved money from sources that preferred to remain anonymous.»
«Robert Hartwell worked for me as an accountant. He was brilliant with numbers, meticulous, trustworthy… or so I thought. In the spring of 1992, Robert discovered that I had been laundering money for a criminal organization, $3 million over two years, funneled through legitimate investments.»
«He came to me with the evidence. I expected him to go to the police. Instead, he made me an offer. He wanted out, wanted to disappear with his wife and son, to start a legitimate life somewhere far from Boston. In exchange for his silence, I would give him my farm in Vermont, the property my wife and I had planned to retire to, and enough money to run it for the first five years. He would take the evidence with him, hidden somewhere safe, as insurance.»
«I had no choice. I agreed. Robert Hartwell was an honest man, forced into a dishonest position because he wanted to protect his family. He didn’t know, couldn’t have known, that the people I was involved with don’t forget, don’t forgive.»
«I’ve spent 33 years looking over my shoulder. So has Catherine. And now they’ve found us. I know it. I can feel it. If you’re reading this, Diane, I’m dead. And Robert is already dead. That’s no coincidence.»
«The evidence Robert took, financial records, recordings, names, it’s still out there. He told me he’d hidden it somewhere at the farm, somewhere you’d find it only if you needed to. He said you were smarter than anyone gave you credit for, and that if he died unexpectedly, you’d figure it out.»
«You need to find it, Diane. Not for the money. God knows there’s enough of that. And I’m leaving you everything I have to make up for the danger I put your family in. You need to find it because they’re coming for you next.»
«Your son Albert doesn’t know the full story. He only knows pieces, enough to make him dangerous, not enough to keep him safe. Someone got to him years ago, fed him information, turned him against you slowly. He thinks he’s protecting the family name, protecting his inheritance. He doesn’t realize he’s working for the people who killed his father.»
«Trust no one. Find the evidence. And for God’s sake, stay alive. William Morse.»
I read the statement three times, my hands shaking so badly the paper rattled. When I finally looked up at Thornton, my voice came out as a whisper. «Robert was killed?»
«I believe so. The cancer diagnosis was legitimate, but I think it was… accelerated. There are compounds that can speed up cellular deterioration, make natural disease progress faster, difficult to detect, especially in someone already terminal.»
«But why? After 33 years?»
«Because someone started asking questions. Someone with connections discovered the old money-laundering operation and began investigating. William Morse’s name came up. And when it did, someone remembered Robert Hartwell, the accountant who disappeared with evidence that could still destroy them.»
I thought about Robert’s final months, the rapid deterioration, how the doctors had been surprised by how quickly the cancer spread, how he’d seemed almost relieved at the end, as if he’d been expecting worse.
«He knew,» I said. «He knew they’d found him.»
«I think he suspected. That’s why he left you the note, the key. He was trying to give you a way to protect yourself.»
«And Albert?» The name tasted bitter in my mouth. «Albert is working for them?»
«Not knowingly. But yes, someone has been manipulating him, feeding him information, probably for years, making him believe that you’re losing your mental capacity, that the farm should be sold, that you need to be placed in care.»
Thornton’s expression hardened. «Once you’re declared incompetent and Albert has power of attorney, the farm can be searched thoroughly. The evidence Robert hid will be found and destroyed. And you…?»
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
«I’ll be put in a facility where no one will believe anything I say,» I finished. «Where I can have an accident. A fall. A medication error.»
«Yes.»
The trucker at the counter paid his bill and left. The waitress refilled our coffee without comment. The normalcy of it felt surreal.
«What’s in the safe deposit box?» I asked.
«I don’t know, but I think it’s a map. Instructions. The beginning of the trail to the real evidence.» Thornton pulled out another document. «This is William Morse’s will. He left you his entire estate. Four million dollars. The house in Maine. Everything.»
«But there’s a condition. You can only access it once you’ve found Robert’s evidence and turned it over to the FBI.»
Four million dollars. The amount William had laundered. Payment for my silence or for my danger. Maybe both.
«There’s something else,» Thornton said. He slid a photograph across the table. It showed a man in his fifties, silver-haired, handsome in an expensive suit. «Do you recognize this man?»
I studied the photo. Something about the eyes seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. «No. Should I?»
«His name is James Carver. He was William Morse’s partner in the money-laundering operation. He’s also a very successful businessman now. Legitimate, or so it appears. Owns a chain of medical supply companies. Sits on several corporate boards. Very respected.»
«And?»
«And he’s been visiting your son regularly for the past year. Albert thinks Carver is a business consultant, helping him plan his financial future. In reality, Carver’s been the one feeding him information about your supposed mental decline, preparing him to take control.»
The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. The nightly phone calls asking if I was alone. Albert’s increasing insistence that the farm was too much for me. Rachel’s sudden interest in my health. Her suggestions about nice facilities for seniors.
They’d been preparing the ground, slowly and carefully, for my removal.
«How do you know all this?» I asked.
Thornton hesitated. «Because William Morse hired a private investigator before he died. Someone to watch his family and yours. Someone who documented every meeting between Carver and your son.»
He pulled out another file, this one thick with photographs, transcripts, surveillance reports. «It’s all here. But it won’t be enough to convict Carver of anything. The only real evidence is what Robert hid.»
I looked at the pile of documents. The photographs. The proof of my son’s betrayal. My Albert. Who I’d raised. Who I’d loved. Who’d sat at Robert’s bedside and cried when his father died.
He’d been manipulated, yes. But he’d also been willing. Willing to believe I was incompetent. Willing to put me away.
«We need to get to that safe deposit box,» I said. «Now. Tonight.»
«The bank doesn’t open until 9:00 a.m.»
«Then we wait. But not here. Carver knows about the box by now. Albert will have told him. They’ll be waiting at the bank.»
«I’ve thought of that.» Thornton pulled out his phone and made a call. «Gregory, it’s James. I need the favor. Yes. Tonight. First National Burlington. Box 247. 20 minutes? You’re a lifesaver.»
He hung up and smiled. «Gregory Evans is the bank president. We went to law school together. He’s meeting us at the bank in 20 minutes with security. Private access, no public entrance. No way for anyone to know we’re there until we’re done.»
I felt a surge of hope. «Can we trust him?»
«With my life. And now, with yours.»
We left money on the table and headed back to the car. As Thornton started the engine, I caught sight of myself in the side mirror. Hair wild, face pale. Still in my nightgown under the blanket.
I looked like a madwoman. Maybe I was. Maybe this whole thing was exactly what Albert said. Paranoid delusions brought on by grief and isolation.
But then I remembered the coldness in my son’s voice when he’d threatened guardianship. The way Rachel had smiled when she’d mentioned care facilities. The photograph of William and Catherine Morse with their hands on Robert’s shoulders all those years ago.
No. This was real. All of it.
«Mrs. Hartwell,» Thornton said as we drove through the quiet streets toward the bank. «Whatever we find in that box. Whatever Robert left you. Are you prepared to see this through? To go against your own son if necessary?»
I thought about Albert as a baby. As a child. As the teenager who’d helped Robert with the farm work. I thought about the man he’d become. The man willing to lock away his mother to get what he wanted.
«He stopped being my son the moment he decided I was an obstacle instead of a person,» I said. «So yes. I’m prepared.»
The bank rose before us. Dark and imposing. A single car was parked by the side entrance. Gregory Evans waiting as promised.
We were about to open Robert’s last secret. And whatever we found inside would either save me or destroy me. Either way, there was no turning back now.
Gregory Evans was younger than I’d expected. Maybe 45, with wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of tired expression that came from being woken at one in the morning. But his handshake was firm and his eyes were sharp as they assessed me. Nightgown, blanket, and all.
«James tells me you’re in trouble,» he said simply.
«That’s putting it mildly,» I replied.
He nodded and unlocked the side entrance. «Security is here but they’re staying in the monitoring room. No record of this access will show in the regular logs. As far as anyone knows, you were never here.»
We followed him through the dim corridors to the vault. The bank felt different at night. More like a mausoleum than a place of business. Our footsteps echoed on the marble floors.
Evans used two keys and a code to open the vault door. Inside, rows of safe deposit boxes lined the walls, each one holding someone’s secrets. Box 247 was in the middle row, eye level.
«I’ll need your key and identification,» Evans said to me.
I handed him the brass key Robert had left me. «I don’t have my ID, it’s back at the house.»
Evans looked at Thornton, who pulled out his phone and showed him something. Probably the private investigator’s photos. Proof of my identity. Evans studied it, then studied me, and finally nodded.
«Good enough for tonight. But Mrs. Hartwell? Officially, this access never happened. Understood?»
«Understood.»
He inserted both keys, his master and my brass one, and the box slid out with a soft metallic sound. It was larger than I’d expected, maybe two feet long.
«I’ll give you privacy,» Evans said, and stepped outside the vault.
Thornton and I stood looking at the box. This was it. Robert’s final message to me, hidden for two years, waiting for the moment I’d need it.
I lifted the lid. Inside were three items. A USB drive, a letter in Robert’s handwriting, and a small leather journal. My hands trembled as I picked up the letter. The envelope was addressed simply, «Diane.»
I opened it.
«My dearest Diane, if you’re reading this, I’m gone, and you’ve found yourself in danger. I’m so sorry. Every choice I made, I made to protect you and Albert, but I see now that some choices only delay the inevitable.»
«In 1992, I discovered that my employer, William Morse, was laundering money for a criminal organization run by James Carver. Three million dollars over two years. I had all the proof, financial records, recorded conversations, everything needed to send them both to prison for twenty years.»
«I should have gone to the police. That’s what an honest man would have done. But I thought about you, about baby Albert, about the cramped apartment, and the three jobs between us and how tired you always looked. And I thought about that farm we’d driven past, the one you’d fallen in love with, with the apple orchard and the view of the mountains.»
«So I made a devil’s bargain. I traded my silence for that farm, for our future. Morse agreed because he had no choice. Carver never knew. Morse kept that secret to protect both of us. But Morse warned me. If Carver ever found out, if anyone ever discovered what I’d done, we’d all be dead.»
«For thirty-three years, I kept the evidence hidden. The USB drive contains everything. Financial records, audio recordings, email chains. Enough to destroy Carver, and everyone connected to him. The journal contains my own documentation, the story of how I discovered it all, my insurance policy written in my own hand.»
«I buried the originals, Diane. I buried them on our property, where only someone who truly knows the land would think to look. The USB is a copy, but it will be enough to get the FBI interested. The journal will tell them where to dig.»
«But there’s something else you need to know. Something that will hurt you. And I’m sorry for that most of all.»
«Albert knows pieces of this story. Not everything, but enough to be dangerous. Ten years ago, he found some old documents in the barn. Papers I’d thought I’d destroyed. He confronted me. Demanded to know the truth about the farm, about where our money came from.»
«I told him a version of the truth. I told him I’d once worked for criminals, that I’d stolen from them to buy the farm, that if anyone ever found out, we’d lose everything. I made him promise to keep the secret, to protect the family. I thought I was protecting him by telling him. Instead, I gave him a weapon to use against us both.»
«Because Albert didn’t see it the way I intended. He saw a father who was a thief, who’d built everything on lies. He saw a farm that was stolen property, that could be taken away at any moment. And I think, God help me, I think it made him ashamed.»
«He changed after that conversation. Became distant. Married Rachel six months later. A woman who shares his new values. Respectability. Legitimacy. Distance from anything that might taint the family name.»
«If someone has gotten to Albert, if someone is using him against you, it’s because he’s vulnerable to it. He already believes his inheritance is dirty. It wouldn’t take much to convince him that protecting himself means betraying you.»
«I wish I’d never told him. I wish I’d gone to the police in 1992 and taken my chances with the law. But I can’t change the past. I can only give you the tools to survive the future.»
«The USB drive and journal will buy your safety. But only if you use them correctly. Don’t go to the local police. Carver has connections everywhere. Go directly to the FBI field office in Boston. Ask for Agent Sharon Morrison. She’s trustworthy. Morse vetted her himself before he died.»
«The evidence is buried beneath the largest apple tree in the orchard. The one we planted the first year. Dig down five feet directly center from the trunk. You’ll find a metal box. Inside is everything.»
«I’m leaving you with an impossible choice, Diane. Use the evidence and destroy our son’s father’s reputation. Or stay silent and risk your own life. I can’t tell you what to do. I can only tell you that I love you, that I’ve always loved you, and that whatever you choose, I’ll understand.»
«You’re stronger than you know, smarter than anyone, including me, ever gave you credit for. You’ll survive this. I know you will. Forgive me if you can. Forever yours, Robert.»
I read the letter twice, tears streaming down my face. Thornton stood silently beside me, giving me space for my grief.
Robert had told Albert, had planted the seeds of doubt and shame that had grown into this betrayal. My husband had meant to protect our son, but instead he’d destroyed him.
And now I had to choose, save myself by revealing the truth or protect Robert’s memory by staying silent.
«Mrs. Hartwell,» Thornton said gently. «We need to move. We can’t stay here all night.»
I nodded and picked up the USB drive. It was surprisingly light for something that held so much power. The journal was slim, leather-bound, filled with Robert’s neat handwriting documenting everything.
«There’s more,» I said. «Buried on the farm. The originals. We need to…»
My phone buzzed. Thornton’s phone, technically, which he’d lent me. A text from an unknown number.
«Mrs. Hartwell, we need to talk. This is James Carver. Your son gave me this number. I understand you’re upset, but I assure you, everything Albert is doing is in your best interest. Call me. Let’s discuss this rationally.»
My blood ran cold. «He has this number. How does he have this number?»
Thornton’s expression darkened. «I gave it to Albert’s lawyer this afternoon when he was making threats. Standard professional courtesy.» He swore under his breath. «Which means Carver has connections inside Albert’s legal team.»
Another text came through. «I know you’re at the bank, Diane. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. The evidence you think you have is meaningless without context. I can explain everything. I can make sure you’re protected, taken care of, but you need to trust me.»
«He’s watching the bank,» I whispered. «He knows we’re here.»
Thornton pulled out his own phone and called Evans. «Gregory, we need to leave through the loading dock. Now.» He listened for a moment. «I don’t care about protocol. There’s a dangerous man watching the building.»
He grabbed my elbow and guided me toward the vault door. «Come on. Evans is meeting us at the back of the building with his car.»
We hurried through the corridors. The USB drive clutched in my hand. The journal tucked under my arm. Behind us, I heard something. A sound that might have been the main door opening.
«Run,» Thornton said.
We ran. The loading dock was at the back of the building, accessed through a service corridor that smelled of cleaning supplies and old paper. Evans was already there, his BMW idling, back door open.
«Get in.»
We threw ourselves into the back seat and Evans accelerated before I’d even closed the door. We shot out of the parking lot and onto the dark streets of Burlington.
«Who’s following you?» Evans asked, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
«Someone dangerous,» Thornton said. «Someone who’s already killed at least three people.»
In the rearview mirror, I saw headlights turn onto the street behind us. A dark SUV moving fast.
«That’s Albert’s car,» I said. «That’s my son.»
