Chapter 35: The Last Phone Call

Rain continued to fall between us.

Neither Damien nor I moved.

His last sentence echoed louder than the traffic surrounding the street.

"My father told me the accident wasn't an accident."

I searched his face for deception.

There wasn't any.

Only confusion.

Only guilt.

"When?" I asked.

"The night Nathaniel died," Damien answered quietly.

"Where?"

"At the estate."

"He walked into my study after the police left."

"He poured himself a drink."

"Then he told me never to ask questions."

"His exact words?"

Damien closed his eyes briefly.

"Some roads stay closed for a reason."

"Forget the Clarke boy."

"Forget?"

"Yes."

"I asked him why."

"He said knowing the truth would destroy more lives than it saved."

"And you listened."

"I did."

"For three years."

"Yes."

I laughed once.

It wasn't amusement.

It sounded painfully hollow.

"You let me mourn my brother beside the man who already knew his death wasn't an accident."

"I didn't know everything."

"You knew enough to ask questions."

"Instead you asked me whose baby I'd lost."

His shoulders dropped.

He didn't defend himself.

For once.

He couldn't.

"Vivian..."

"Don't."

"Not today."

I walked past him.

He didn't try to stop me.

By the time I reached Verline, evening had settled across the city.

The building felt strangely peaceful.

Most employees had already gone home.

Only the lights inside my office remained on.

Rose stood beside my desk.

"Madam," she said softly.

"Someone delivered this while you were away."

She handed me a small cardboard parcel.

No return address.

No courier label.

Only my name.

Inside lay an old prepaid mobile phone.

Its battery had already been charged.

A single sticky note rested beneath it.

"Charge first. Then listen."

"No signature."

"No."

Rose hesitated.

"Should I call the police?"

"Not yet."

"Lock the office doors instead."

"Yes, Madam."

She left quietly.

I inserted the battery.

The phone powered on immediately.

No contacts.

No messages.

Only one saved voicemail.

Received.

Three years ago.

My heartbeat slowed.

I pressed play.

Static filled the room.

Then Nathaniel's voice appeared.

"Viv..."

Unlike the recording on the memory card, this one sounded rushed.

"If you're hearing this, I didn't make it back."

"Don't cry."

"Listen carefully."

I gripped the edge of my desk.

"Someone copied my phone."

"If I disappear, trust only recordings you hear from my own voice."

"Paper can be forged."

"Voices are harder."

Car tyres rolled somewhere in the background.

"I'm on my way to meet someone."

"He says he has proof."

"If he's telling the truth..."

The line crackled.

"Everything we've believed about Ashford Holdings is only half the story."

A car door slammed.

Nathaniel lowered his voice.

"He's here."

"If I don't call you tomorrow..."

"Find the second notebook."

"Not the blue one."

"The black one."

"It's with..."

His sentence disappeared beneath loud interference.

"Nathaniel?" I whispered instinctively.

The voicemail continued.

"Whatever happens..."

"Don't blame Damien until you know why he was chosen."

Silence.

The recording ended.

I stared at the phone.

My own breathing sounded deafening.

Nathaniel had said Damien's name.

Not with hatred.

Not with blame.

With warning.

A sharp knock echoed across the office.

"Mrs. Ashford?"

Victor Hayes.

I unlocked the door.

He stepped inside carrying another thin folder.

"You received it," he said.

"The phone."

"You knew about this?"

"Nathaniel gave it to me the morning he died."

"Why didn't you hand it over before?"

"Because someone kept searching for it."

"If I'd released it earlier..."

"They would've destroyed it."

"Did you hear the message?"

"Only once."

"The ending is damaged."

"Can it be restored?"

"Possibly."

"I've already sent a copy to an audio specialist."

"There's something else you need to know."

Victor opened the folder.

Inside sat a photocopy of Nathaniel's phone records.

One number had been highlighted in red.

"This was the last completed call he ever made."

"Who answered?"

"We finally identified the owner yesterday."

I looked down at the report.

The registered subscriber wasn't Richard Hawthorne.

It wasn't Eleanor.

It wasn't Damien.

It belonged to someone else entirely.

Colette Barnes.

The colour drained from my face.

"That's impossible."

"She didn't work for Ashford until after the accident."

"Officially," Victor replied.

"Unofficially..."

"She'd already been inside the Ashford family's orbit for almost five years."

"She wasn't hired because she was qualified."

"She was planted."

"By whom?"

Victor looked at me with quiet certainty.

"That's exactly what Nathaniel died trying to discover."