Chapter 3 - Elena's Voice on the Tape
They found an old cassette player in storage.
Vincent almost broke it trying to force the tape inside.
Marco watched him.
“You could take a breath.”
“I am breathing.”
“You're crushing the machine.”
Vincent loosened his grip.
The tape began.
Static.
Then Elena's voice.
“Vincent.”
He closed his eyes.
One word.
One sound.
It had been eleven years.
Her voice was softer than he remembered.
“You may never hear this.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“I hope you do.”
A pause.
“If you are listening, then I was right to be afraid.”
His chest tightened.
“Elena.”
Marco looked away.
The tape continued.
“Vincent, I need you to understand something. The people around you are not all loyal to you. Some are loyal to what your name gives them.”
Vincent stared at the machine.
“Anthony knows about the shipments.”
Marco's expression changed.
“What shipments?”
Vincent raised a hand.
“Let it play.”
Elena continued.
“Not the kind you think. I found records connecting several companies you own to missing imports. People have been using your businesses to move money.”
Vincent went still.
He knew about the shell companies.
But he had never known their full purpose.
Elena continued.
“You think your accountant handles everything.”
A pause.
“He doesn't.”
“Your lawyer does.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
Anthony.
“I tried to tell you.”
Her voice broke slightly.
“You wouldn't listen.”
Vincent remembered.
The arguments.
The nights he came home late.
The dinners he canceled.
Elena asking whether he knew exactly where his money went.
He had accused her of worrying too much.
She had stopped asking.
The tape crackled.
“There was a fire at the South Canal warehouse.”
Vincent knew what came next.
“I know what it looked like.”
She took a breath.
“It wasn't an accident.”
Vincent's pulse hammered.
“Someone set it.”
“Someone inside your organization.”
The tape ended.
Silence.
Marco looked at him.
“Do we know who?”
Vincent stared at the cassette.
“No.”
Then the recorder clicked.
There was more.
A second section.
“I couldn't tell you everything because I was afraid someone was listening.”
Vincent's heart stopped.
“Clare Bennett knows.”
Marco looked at him.
“Elena said Clare's name.”
The tape continued.
“She doesn't know the whole story, but she knows enough. She keeps copies of everything.”
Vincent listened.
“Elena.”
Then:
“If I die, do not punish the people I trusted.”
“Protect them.”
“Especially Clare.”
The tape ended.
Vincent sat motionless.
He had no memory of Clare being near Elena during those final months.
But apparently she had been there.
Quietly.
Protecting his wife.
He stood.
“We find out where Clare keeps her records.”
Marco nodded.
But Vincent stopped him.
“Without touching anything.”
“You trust her?”
“I don't know.”
The next morning Vincent returned to the bookstore.
Clare was shelving books.
She looked up.
“You listened.”
“Yes.”
“How angry are you?”
“At you?”
“Yes.”
He thought.
“Less than I expected.”
“Good.”
“What did Elena know?”
“More than she could prove.”
“Did she know Anthony was involved?”
“She suspected.”
“So do I.”
Clare put down the book.
“Vincent.”
“What?”
“You are about to make the mistake she warned me about.”
“Which is?”
“Assuming power will solve a problem created by secrecy.”
He stared.
“You say that as if you know what I'm thinking.”
“I do.”
“You think I'm going after Anthony.”
“You are.”
“Yes.”
“You'll confront him.”
“Yes.”
“He'll deny everything.”
“Yes.”
“And then you'll pressure everyone around him until someone makes a mistake.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“That is usually how this works.”
“And that is exactly why you will never know who is telling the truth.”
He stepped closer.
“Then what should I do?”
“Listen.”
“To whom?”
“The people who have been afraid to talk.”
He looked around the store.
“What did Elena leave you?”
Clare hesitated.
“A notebook.”
“Where?”
“Not here.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn't know whether you were safe.”
Vincent stared at her.
“You thought I might hurt you.”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I thought someone might use you to find me.”
That answer silenced him.
He remembered the black sedan.
The men watching her store.
Someone had already been looking for the notebook.
“Who knows about it?”
“Daniel.”
“Is he alive?”
Clare nodded.
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
Her expression hardened.
“No.”
“You protected him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he was hiding from the same people who killed Elena.”
Vincent's face tightened.
“Did they kill my wife?”
Clare's eyes filled slightly.
“I don't know.”
“You believe they did.”
“I believe she knew someone wanted her silent.”
He looked down.
For years, he had believed Elena died because cancer had been cruel.
Now he wondered whether her illness had simply given someone the perfect cover.
He hated the thought.
Not because it was impossible.
Because it was possible.
That night, Vincent moved Elena's old belongings out of storage.
He spent hours going through letters.
Receipts.
Photographs.
Then he found something he had never seen before.
A letter addressed to Clare.
The envelope had never been opened.
The date was two months before Elena's death.
Vincent handed it to her the next morning.
Clare stared at it.
“She told me she had mailed it.”
“You never received it.”
“No.”
“Then someone intercepted it.”
Clare opened the letter.
Inside was a single sentence.
Trust Vincent when he stops pretending to know everything.
Clare looked up.
“I think your wife believed in you more than you did.”
Vincent almost smiled.
“She was always better at that.”
Then Clare noticed something else.
A second page.
She unfolded it.
Her face changed.
“What?”
She handed it to him.
A list of names.
At the bottom was one name circled in red.
Marcus Moretti.
Vincent froze.
His older brother had died fifteen years earlier.
“What does this mean?”
“I don't know.”
Vincent stared.
Marcus had supposedly died in an automobile accident in Wisconsin.
But Elena had investigated him.
Why?
He looked at Clare.
“Did she ever tell you about Marcus?”
“No.”
Vincent felt something cold settle in his chest.
If Elena had been investigating Marcus before his death, then the entire history of his family was suddenly uncertain.
That afternoon, Vincent met his mother.
She was eighty-two and still terrifying.
He showed her the list.
Her hands began to shake.
“Where did you get this?”
“Elena.”
His mother closed her eyes.
“She shouldn't have known.”
“Known what?”
“The truth about Marcus.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“What truth?”
His mother whispered,
“Your brother did not die in that accident.”
Vincent stared.
“He was killed.”
“By whom?”
May you like
His mother's eyes filled with tears.
“Your father.”
Related Stories
