Part 2: The Voicemail
The next morning, I went to Mr. Halden’s office.
He had set out two cups of tea and several documents on his desk. After greeting me, he pulled out a chair and invited me to sit.
“Were you able to read Emma’s letter?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Every page.”
He placed several papers in front of me: property records, a real estate listing agreement, an unsigned draft purchase contract, and a document that supposedly authorized Evan to represent Emma in the proposed sale.
I studied the signature.
At first glance, it looked convincing. But something about it felt wrong.
Emma had a distinctive habit when writing her name. She always made the second letter unusually tall.
The signature on this document didn’t have that trait.
“She didn’t write this,” I said.
Mr. Halden nodded.
“Emma noticed the same thing.”
I swallowed.
“Was the house actually sold?”
“No. The transaction never reached completion. Once Emma challenged the authorization, we informed the relevant parties that its validity was disputed.”
Relief washed over me.
“Thank goodness.”
The lawyer leaned forward.
“I need to be precise about what we know. There is evidence of an attempted property transaction and a disputed signature. However, we haven’t established who created that document.”
“But Evan wanted the house sold.”
“Yes.”
“And Emma refused.”
“That’s correct.”
I asked whether she had confronted him.
Mr. Halden hesitated before answering.
“She told me she planned to speak with him after consulting a family-law attorney.”
“When was that?”
“The day before she died.”
I froze.
Emma had died in a car accident. According to the police report, she had been driving home on a rainy evening when her car left the road and hit a tree. The medical team told us that she and her unborn child had died before help could reach them.
I had accepted that explanation because I was too devastated to question anything.
But suddenly, I remembered the phone call she had made that afternoon.
She had tried to reach me. I was at the pharmacy and didn’t answer. Later, I listened to her voicemail once before putting my phone away, because hearing her voice hurt too much.
I took out my phone and searched for the recording.
Then I pressed play.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”
Her voice filled the office.
She sounded warm, though a little tired.
“I’m coming over tomorrow. There’s something important I need to tell you.”
After a brief pause, she went on.
“Don’t worry. I’m okay.”
Then she added softly:
“And Mom? I love you.”
The recording ended.
I pressed the phone against my chest.
“She never got the chance to tell me,” I whispered.
Mr. Halden said nothing. He simply waited.
A moment later, his office phone rang. His expression changed as he listened to his assistant.
“Please ask the detective to come in,” he said.
I looked up.
“Detective?”
He turned to me.
“Mrs. Ellis, the police would like to speak with us about Emma’s final hours.”
Detective Sarah Whitcomb walked in carrying a slim folder. She appeared to be in her forties, with tired eyes and a calm, professional manner.
After shaking my hand, she offered her condolences.
“Mrs. Ellis, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
I nodded, unable to find many words.
She sat across from me and explained that the investigation into Emma’s crash was still open. New information had come to light, and the authorities needed to verify several details.
My heart began to race.
“Are you saying her accident wasn’t an accident?”
The detective paused.
“We haven’t reached a final conclusion about every factor involved.”
She opened her folder and explained that Emma’s car had been traveling along County Road 18 shortly after eight in the evening. The road was wet, and visibility was poor. The initial evidence had appeared consistent with a loss of control.
However, investigators had recently received information suggesting Emma had felt threatened during a domestic dispute.
I gripped my handbag.
“Threatened by whom?”
Detective Whitcomb glanced briefly at Mr. Halden before continuing.
“Did your daughter ever tell you about difficulties in her marriage?”
I lowered my eyes.
“Not everything. I think she was trying to spare me.”
The detective nodded.
“We’ve also received a statement from a neighbor who reported hearing an argument outside Emma’s home earlier that evening.”
My hands trembled.
“Was Evan there?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
The detective explained that police were examining communications, vehicle information, and other available evidence. She stressed that she didn’t want to make assumptions before the investigation supported them.
I understood what she meant, but my thoughts were already racing.
Emma had found a suspicious property document. She had contacted a lawyer. She had planned to tell me something important.
Then she died.
That afternoon, I went to the home Emma had shared with Evan.
It stood on a quiet street lined with maple trees. Her shoes were still beside the front door. A yellow raincoat hung from a hook, and an unfinished shopping list lay on the kitchen counter.
Milk.
Apples.
Baby detergent.
Blue socks for Oliver.
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
My grandson would never wear those socks. Emma would never carry him through that front door.
The future she had been preparing for had vanished.
About twenty minutes later, Evan arrived.
He stopped when he saw me standing in the kitchen.
“What are you doing here?”
I turned to him.
“I came to collect a few of Emma’s belongings.”
His expression immediately became guarded.
“You should have called first.”
“Why?”
“Because this is my house.”
I looked at him.
“Emma lived here too.”
He sighed.
“Margaret, please don’t start an argument.”
I explained that I only wanted some photographs and personal keepsakes. Mr. Halden had advised me to arrange the collection properly.
Evan glanced toward the hallway.
“Fine. But don’t take anything valuable.”
I stared at him.
“Valuable?”
He shrugged as though his words were perfectly reasonable.
I thought about Emma’s photographs, her handwritten notes, and the little blanket she had been knitting for Oliver.
Those were the things I wanted to keep.
But Evan was already thinking about possessions and money.
I asked him a question.
“Did Emma ever tell you she was thinking about leaving?”
His expression shifted.
“What are you talking about?”
“Did she tell you she wanted to end the marriage?”
He gave a dismissive laugh.
“Emma was emotional. Pregnancy can make women say things they don’t mean.”
My hands tightened.
“She wasn’t imagining your relationship with Celeste.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Celeste and I are none of your concern.”
“Emma was my daughter. What happened to her was absolutely my concern.”
He stepped closer.
“You need to understand that Emma and I were married. Whatever happened between us was private.”
I nodded slowly.
“Then why did you bring Celeste to her funeral?”
His mouth tightened, but he had no answer.
As I got ready to leave, I noticed a framed photograph on the hallway table. It showed Emma and me at the beach when she was eleven. Her hair was blowing across her face, and she was laughing.
I reached for it.
“Leave that,” Evan said sharply.
I stopped.
“Why? It’s a photograph of my daughter and me.”
“It belongs in this house.”
I looked at him in disbelief. Then I carefully set it back down.
Not because I accepted his claim, but because I refused to give him a chance to turn the situation against me.
I left without another word.
Three days later, Detective Whitcomb called.
“Mrs. Ellis, we have an update on the investigation.”
I sat down immediately.
She explained that investigators had examined additional information from the crash scene and Emma’s vehicle. They had found no evidence that another car had struck hers, but an inspection had revealed a problem with one of the tires.
The tire appeared to have been damaged before the final impact.
Specialists were working to establish when and how that damage had happened.
I struggled to speak.
“Are you suggesting someone deliberately damaged her car?”
“We haven’t reached that conclusion yet,” she replied carefully. “But we have reason to investigate whether the damage was accidental or intentional.”
