Chapter 7 - Voices of the Dead
Mark clicked the audio file with trembling fingers. The low hum of static filled the cold boathouse, followed by the gentle lapping of waves. Ten years slipped away in an instant as his father’s deep, measured voice cut through the speakers:
""Robert, you can’t siphon funds from the municipal project to cover your private market losses. The board will convene on Friday. I have to report this.""
A long silence followed, punctuated by the clinking of glasses. Then, an unexpected voice replied—not Uncle Robert, but Chloe, barely a teenager at the time, her tone ice-cold and chillingly calm:
""Uncle Thomas, nobody convenes on Friday if the boat doesn't make it across the narrows tonight. Father doesn't have the stomach for this, but I do.""
A sudden scuffle erupted on the recording—the sound of an engine revving violently, wood splintering, a man's choked shout, and then the sickening splash of water rushing into a compromised hull. The recording abruptly cut to digital silence.
Mark sat frozen, tears of pure fury burning his eyes. It hadn't been Robert’s design alone; it was Chloe all along. The quiet, observant niece had been the true architect of the family's ruin from childhood. And Elena had uncovered the entire trail of blood and embezzlement.
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Suddenly, the boathouse lights flickered and died, plunging him into absolute blackness. The heavy thud of footsteps approached on the wooden pier outside.
A slow tap resonated against the boathouse window. A voice spoke from the shadows: ""Mark, open up. Let's finish what was started ten years ago.""
