Chapter 2 - The Number That Never Answered
Emily did not sleep that night.
She pushed a chair beneath the apartment door handle and kept the lights off. Every sound from the hallway made her sit upright.
At sunrise, she called the police.
The officer who took her report was courteous but honest. An unknown call without a direct threat was difficult to trace. He advised her to block the number and contact them again if anything else happened.
Emily did not mention the letter.
She was not yet sure whom she could trust.
At nine, she searched for Hale Family Holdings and called the main office.
A receptionist answered.
“My name is Emily Carter. I need to speak with Warren Hale.”
There was a pause.
“May I ask what this concerns?”
“A family trust.”
Another pause.
“One moment.”
The call transferred.
A familiar voice answered.
“Emily?”
Vanessa Hale sounded surprised, but not pleased.
Emily stood straighter.
“I asked for Warren.”
“He is unavailable.”
“When will he be available?”
“That depends on why you are calling.”
Emily looked down at Lydia’s letter.
“My mother said a trust was created for me.”
Silence filled the line.
Vanessa finally laughed.
It was a soft, controlled sound.
“Your mother said many things near the end.”
“The letter was written after the date you told me she died.”
This time, the silence lasted longer.
“Where did you find it?” Vanessa asked.
Emily immediately regretted revealing that detail.
“In a safe place.”
“Emily, listen carefully. Lydia was taking medication. She became confused. Richard protected you from a great deal of unpleasantness.”
“Did Warren create a trust?”
“You received everything you were entitled to.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
Vanessa’s voice lost its warmth.
“You disappeared for years. You refused invitations. You ignored your grandfather’s letters. Now you call because you need money?”
“I never received a letter from Warren.”
“We have signed delivery confirmations.”
“Signed by whom?”
The line went dead.
Emily called back.
The receptionist told her Vanessa was now in a meeting.
Emily tried again that afternoon.
Then the following morning.
Every call ended the same way.
Warren Hale was unavailable.
On the third day, Emily visited the address printed on Lydia’s letter. It belonged to an old legal office on Wabash Avenue.
The building had been converted into luxury apartments.
A doorman told her the law firm had moved years earlier.
“Do you remember its name?” Emily asked.
He studied the faded letterhead.
“Hale, Quinn and Pierce,” he said. “They’re still around. Bigger now. LaSalle Street.”
Emily thanked him.
As she turned to leave, an elderly woman sitting near the lobby window rose slowly from her chair.
“Are you Lydia Carter’s daughter?”
Emily froze.
The woman had silver hair pulled into a neat bun and wore a dark green coat.
“My name is Ruth Bell,” she said. “I worked as the night receptionist when your mother came here.”
“When was that?”
“Nine years ago.”
“My mother used this law firm?”
“She came six times during the month before she disappeared.”
Emily’s heartbeat quickened.
“Before she died.”
Ruth’s expression changed.
“I never believed that story.”
Emily glanced toward the doorman.
Ruth lowered her voice.
“Your mother was frightened, but she was not ill. She kept asking whether Warren Hale had personally approved changes to your trust.”
“What changes?”
“She never told me.”
Ruth opened her handbag and removed a large brown envelope.
“I kept this because someone came looking for it after the office closed. A man offered me $10,000 to say Lydia had never visited.”
“Who was he?”
“I didn’t know his name then.”
Ruth handed Emily the envelope.
Inside were photocopies of certified-mail receipts.
Each one was addressed to Emily.
Each had been returned to the law firm.
The signatures claiming Emily had refused delivery were not hers.
Beneath the receipts was a photograph taken by the building’s old security camera.
It showed Lydia entering the office beside a younger Richard Hale.
Behind them walked a woman wearing dark glasses.
Vanessa.
Emily turned the photograph over.
May you like
Ruth had written a date on the back.
It was three days after Lydia’s funeral.
