Chapter 4 - The Attorney’s Alibi
“Because people like Charles Bellamy don’t leave loose ends,” Grace had told her daughter in the quiet sanctuary of the servants' pantry fifteen minutes before the ceremony. “If that phone exists, and if Charles knows it exists, we are standing on dry tinder.”
Yet Emily had kept it. Tucked securely against her ribs in her faded blue sweater, she had carried it into the ballroom, driven by a child's stubborn sense of justice that adults so often discarded.
Now, the room hung on the dying echoes of Sofia’s voice.
Vincent Moretti stood slowly. His chair scraped backward against the stone floor. He ignored Isabella, whose face had curdled into an expression of desperate fury, and walked around the long table until he stood three feet from Emily.
“Play it again,” Vincent said. His voice was no longer that of a corporate executive. It was the low, dangerous growl of a predator whose territory had been invaded.
Emily looked up at her mother, then pressed the speaker icon once more.
“Vince, if Bellamy is in the room, don’t say another word. He’s the one who set the route on December 14th. He took the keys to the lake house. If you’re hearing this, I’m either dead or trapped where the ledgers are kept. Do not trust—”
The audio cut off with a sharp digital pop. Battery dead.
Charles Bellamy’s tie suddenly looked three sizes too tight. He took a step back toward the exit, his hand reaching inside his tailored jacket.
“Mr. Moretti, this is a clever digital fabrication,” Charles stammered, his professional composure completely unraveling. “AI voice cloning has advanced rapidly. Someone is trying to sabotage the continuity trust before the merger—”
“Dominic,” Vincent said without turning around.
“Yeah, Vince?” Dominic Moretti stepped forward, his knuckles cracking as he rolled his shoulders. His eyes were locked entirely on the attorney.
“Block the exits. Nobody leaves this room. And check Charles’s briefcase.”
Before Dominic could cross the floor, Charles bolted. He lunged toward the service doors, but Dominic was faster. A heavy hand caught Charles by the shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him hard against the mahogany banquet table. Silverware clattered; crystal water goblets tipped over, spilling water across the white linen like spreading tears.
Dominic’s hand slid into Charles’s jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy, steel-keyed security fob and a thin leather ledger with no title on the cover.
“What’s this, Charlie?” Dominic asked, flipping open the book. His eyes scanned the cramped handwriting inside, and the color drained from his face. “Vince... you need to see this.”
Vincent didn't look at the book yet. He knelt down on one knee in front of eight-year-old Emily, ignoring the dust on the floor. His massive shoulders were tense, his gray eyes searching the child’s face with a desperate gentleness.
“Where did you find this phone, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice softening in a way nobody in the Hudson Valley had heard in three years.
“In Mom’s sewing box,” Emily whispered, clutching her mother’s hand. “But Mom didn't know it was there. I found it this morning.”
Vincent looked up at Grace. The housekeeper met his gaze, her chin trembling, but she did not look away.
May you like
“Grace?” Vincent asked quietly.
“I found it three days ago, Mr. Moretti,” Grace confessed, her voice shaking. “I was sweeping the old carriage house storage loft near the East Gate. It was buried beneath a floorboard panel near the old pump station. I brought it inside to give to you, but... but then I saw Mr. Bellamy talking to the security detail about clearing out the loft for the wedding preparations. I got scared. I didn't know who to trust.”
