Chapter 6
Whispers in the Harbor Fog
I froze with the burner phone in my palm.
The blue screen illuminated my face in the shadows.
“A burner phone, Graham?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm.
Graham stepped out from the hallway archway.
He was wearing a dark bathrobe, his chest bare, his expression completely unreadable.
He didn't look panicked.
He looked disappointed. Like a hunter watching a trapped rabbit try to chew through iron.
“Put it down, Eleanor,” he commanded.
“Who is Clara?” I demanded, turning to face him.
“Who is she, and why does she think burning this house down is an option?”
Graham let out a slow, heavy sigh.
He walked closer, his bare feet making no sound.
“Clara is a complication,” he said smoothly.
“Just like your father was.”
My blood turned to liquid nitrogen.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Graham said, stopping two feet away.
“Your father was weak, Eleanor. He built ships, but he didn't know how to navigate the storm. I bought his debts before he even knew he was sinking.”
“You murdered him,” I whispered.
“I accelerated a natural process,” Graham corrected coldly.
“And now you’re going to hand me that phone, go upstairs, and forget you ever saw it.”
“Or what?” I challenged, lifting my chin.
“Or I’ll lock you in that room permanently,” he replied.
“And the world will read in the morning paper that Mrs. Calloway suffered a tragic psychiatric breakdown after ten years of marriage.”
He reached out to snatch the phone from my hand.
I didn't pull away.
I dropped it deliberately onto the hardwood floor beneath my heel.
I brought my heel down with full force.
Crack.
The screen shattered into a spiderweb of dead pixels and sparks.
Graham’s eyes flared with sudden rage.
He lunged forward.
His hand gripped my wrist like a steel vice.
“You stupid bitch—” he hissed.
Before he could finish, the front doorbell chimed.
Not a polite ding.
A heavy, rhythmic pounding that rattled the stained glass.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Graham froze.
He looked toward the front foyer.
“Who the hell is that at two in the morning?” he muttered.
He released my wrist and grabbed a heavy brass fireplace poker from the hallway stand.
He crept toward the heavy oak front door.
He pulled it open with a violent jerk.
Standing on the porch was not a hitman.
It was retired Detective Miller.
My father’s old partner.
Holding a manila folder stained with rain.
May you like
“Good evening, Calloway,” Miller said, stepping past him uninvited.
“I think your wife and I have some old business to discuss.”
