Chapter 8: A Dead Woman's Voice
609 Words
Nobody moved.
The phone lay on the floor between them.
The voice had been clear.
Too clear.
A frightened woman.
A woman Adrian believed was Emily.
And everyone in the room had heard her final words.
"He's watching me."
Then the line went dead.
Eleanor slowly lowered herself into her chair.
Adrian stared at the phone as if afraid to touch it.
Mara picked it up first.
The screen had already gone black.
"Call the number back," she said quietly.
Adrian blinked.
As though returning to reality.
He immediately dialed.
One ring.
Two rings.
Then—
"The number you have dialed is not in service."
Adrian called again.
Same message.
His face tightened.
"No."
His voice cracked.
"No, I heard her."
Mara gently placed a hand on his arm.
"Adrian—"
"I know what my wife sounds like."
His eyes were red now.
Not angry.
Desperate.
"Eighteen years, Mara. I knew her voice."
Nobody spoke.
Because grief made people hear hope where none existed.
But everyone in that room had heard a woman.
Even Eleanor.
Eleanor suddenly stood.
"Give me the phone."
Adrian handed it over reluctantly.
She checked the recent calls.
Her expression changed.
"What is it?" Mara asked.
Eleanor turned the screen around.
There was no incoming number.
No record of the call.
Nothing.
Adrian frowned.
"That's impossible. I answered it."
"I know," Eleanor replied softly.
Mara's pulse quickened.
"Can calls disappear?"
"They can if someone uses certain applications."
Adrian looked up immediately.
"You mean someone planned this?"
Eleanor didn't answer.
Which was answer enough.
The room fell silent.
Then Mara remembered something.
"The woman."
Both turned toward her.
"The woman with the red scarf."
Grace Bennett.
If she was alive, maybe she knew something.
Maybe she was trying to warn them.
Eleanor closed her eyes.
"Tomorrow."
"What?" Adrian asked.
"I'll show you Grace's old file tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Adrian repeated.
"Someone just used my dead wife's voice!"
Eleanor looked exhausted.
"And someone used Grace's memory against me."
For the first time since they had met her, she looked old.
Not mysterious.
Not composed.
Just tired.
Mara suddenly felt sorry for her.
Whatever Eleanor knew—
she had been carrying it alone.
Before anyone could speak again, Mara's phone vibrated.
She frowned.
Unknown Number.
Her heart skipped.
Adrian noticed immediately.
"Don't answer."
But she already had.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then static.
And finally—
a man's voice.
Calm.
Almost polite.
"Mrs. Hale."
Every hair on her arms stood up.
"Who is this?"
"I believe you've met Mr. Mercer."
Adrian's eyes widened.
The stranger continued.
"I warned Grace once."
Mara's hand tightened around the phone.
"What do you want?"
A soft laugh.
"Nothing."
"Then why are you doing this?"
Another pause.
Then the man's voice became serious.
"Because your husband and Emily Mercer died trying to protect something."
Mara stopped breathing.
"What?"
"You've been asking the wrong question."
Adrian stepped closer.
Mara put the phone on speaker.
The stranger continued:
"You keep asking whether they knew each other."
"They did."
"But that's not important."
Mara's voice shook.
"Then what is?"
The answer came immediately.
"You should be asking who they were hiding from."
The call disconnected.
Silence filled the office.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody moved.
Because for the first time since Daniel's death—
Mara felt something she hadn't felt in three years.
Not grief.
Not loneliness.
Fear.
Real fear.
Then Adrian quietly reached for her hand.
Neither mentioned it.
Neither pulled away.
And on Eleanor's desk—
unnoticed by all three of them—
sat another white envelope.
This one addressed to only one person.
MARA HALE
And beneath her name were four handwritten words.
Ask about July 18th.
- Writer
