Chapter 4 - The Phone Behind the Nursery Wall
The countdown reached eight seconds.
Seven.
Six.
Outside the closet, Ethan was still arguing with Vanessa.
I stared at the screen.
I had no idea what Emily had scheduled to send, but I knew one thing.
I was not stopping it.
Five.
Four.
Three.
The phone vibrated.
FILE SENT.
Almost immediately Ethan’s phone rang.
He released Vanessa.
“What?”
I couldn’t hear whoever was speaking.
But Ethan’s face changed.
“No.”
He looked toward the nursery.
“No, I’m at the cemetery.”
Another pause.
“I said I’m at the cemetery.”
Vanessa stared at him.
“What happened?”
Ethan ended the call.
“Martinez just received another recording.”
He rushed toward the hidden compartment again.
Vanessa stood in the doorway.
“That phone isn’t there.”
Ethan turned slowly.
“How do you know?”
“Because whoever has it just sent the file.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Ethan looked directly toward the closet.
I stopped breathing.
He crossed the nursery.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Then sirens sounded outside.
Ethan swore.
Vanessa ran toward the hallway.
Ethan grabbed her arm.
“If you say one word—”
She slapped him.
Hard.
“You don’t get to threaten me anymore.”
He stared at her.
The front door opened downstairs.
“Cincinnati Police!”
Ethan released her.
I pushed open the closet door.
His face went completely white.
“Margaret.”
I held Emily’s phone against my chest.
Vanessa looked from me to him.
“You knew she was here?”
“No.”
I backed away.
“You stay away from me.”
Detective Martinez entered seconds later with two officers.
Her eyes immediately moved to the phone.
“Mrs. Bennett?”
“This is Emily’s.”
Ethan stepped forward.
“That device belongs to my wife’s estate.”
Michael Reeves appeared behind the detective.
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
Ethan glared at him.
Michael entered the nursery.
“Emily transferred possession of that phone, and all intellectual property stored on it, to her mother under a signed document executed six weeks before her death.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I drafted it.”
Ethan’s mouth tightened.
Detective Martinez extended an evidence bag.
“Mrs. Bennett, may I secure the phone?”
I hesitated.
It felt like handing Emily away again.
But I nodded.
“There’s a video.”
“We received one file automatically twenty minutes ago.”
“What was it?”
Martinez looked toward Ethan.
“I’d rather discuss that privately.”
That was enough to make him react.
“You cannot interrogate me in my own house without counsel.”
“No one is interrogating you.”
She looked around the nursery.
“But since you mentioned it, perhaps you’d like to explain why you told someone on the phone that Vanessa believed you moved your wife’s body.”
Ethan’s face froze.
Vanessa whispered, “You heard that?”
Martinez pointed toward the hall.
“Ms. Price, an officer will speak with you downstairs.”
Vanessa did not move.
Then she looked at Ethan.
“I want a lawyer.”
Michael raised an eyebrow.
“Probably wise.”
Two hours later, I sat in Detective Martinez’s office with Michael beside me.
The phone was being copied by forensic technicians.
Martinez closed the door.
“The automatic file Emily sent today was short.”
She opened a laptop.
“I want you to understand this may be difficult.”
“I buried my daughter today.”
I looked directly at her.
“Show me.”
The video began.
Timestamp:
August 2 — 10:43 PM.
Three days before Emily died.
The camera appeared to be positioned somewhere inside the downstairs study.
Emily’s voice could be heard before she entered the frame.
“You changed the beneficiary.”
Ethan followed her.
“No.”
“Yes, you did.”
“You’re confused.”
“I spoke to Michael.”
Ethan’s expression changed.
Emily held up paperwork.
“You tried to list yourself as beneficiary on an account that doesn’t even permit spousal designation.”
Ethan laughed.
“You have no idea how finance works.”
“My father taught me.”
“You inherited money. That doesn’t make you intelligent.”
My hands clenched.
Emily remained calm.
“I’m leaving.”
Ethan stepped closer.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not taking my son.”
“You don’t even know whether the baby is a boy.”
“You told your mother.”
Emily stared at him.
Then her expression changed.
“I never told Mom.”
Ethan stopped.
It was subtle.
But undeniable.
Emily stepped backward.
“Who told you?”
Ethan didn’t answer.
“Who told you the baby was a boy?”
He walked away.
Emily followed.
“Ethan.”
The recording ended.
I looked at Martinez.
“I didn’t know.”
She nodded.
“That matters.”
“Why?”
“Because according to Emily’s prenatal records, the fetal sex had been documented two weeks earlier.”
Michael frowned.
“But Emily hadn’t told Ethan?”
“Apparently not.”
I suddenly remembered something.
“The specialist.”
Martinez looked at me.
“What specialist?”
“Emily went to a private maternal-fetal medicine clinic.”
“When?”
“A few weeks before she died. She told me Ethan couldn’t attend because of work.”
Michael leaned forward.
“Who went with her?”
I shook my head.
“She said she went alone.”
Martinez opened another file.
“She didn’t.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“We pulled the parking records this afternoon.”
She turned the laptop.
A grainy image showed Emily walking toward the clinic.
Beside her was a woman.
Tall.
Silver hair.
Cream-colored coat.
I recognized her immediately.
Eleanor Caldwell.
Ethan’s mother.
“She went with Emily?”
Martinez nodded.
“And if Emily never told Ethan the baby was a boy…”
I finished the sentence.
“Eleanor did.”
Michael leaned back slowly.
Martinez continued.
“There’s more.”
Another image appeared.
Same clinic.
Same day.
Eleanor stood outside speaking with someone.
A woman wearing scrubs.
Martinez enlarged the picture.
“This is Nurse Rebecca Shaw.”
“Who is she?”
“She accessed Emily’s medical file twice after that appointment.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“Where is she?”
Martinez hesitated.
“That’s another problem.”
Rebecca Shaw had resigned from the clinic the morning after Emily died.
She had emptied her apartment.
Disconnected her phone.
And disappeared.
Michael stared at the screen.
“So find her.”
“We’re trying.”
Martinez reached for another folder.
“But before Rebecca disappeared, she made one phone call from the clinic’s landline at 2:14 in the morning.”
“To whom?”
Martinez slid the record toward us.
The call lasted forty-three seconds.
Recipient:
May you like
Eleanor Caldwell.
The same night Emily died.
