Chapter 4 - The Digital Ghost
The digital footprint was crude, but it took a trained eye to spot it.
Nathaniel zoomed in on the timeline, scrubbing frame by frame through the three seconds surrounding the fall. The timestamp metadata showed a tiny, unauthorized override executed from the estate’s local server hub located in the basement utility room—a hub that only three people had administrative passcodes for: himself, the estate’s IT contractor, and Vivien.
He closed the video window and sat back in his leather chair, the silence of the study pressing down on him like a physical weight.
His fiancée—the woman he had planned to marry in a lavish ceremony at St. Patrick’s Cathedral next autumn—had not only attempted to murder his mother, but she had spent the hours after the ambulance left carefully scrubbing the security logs to cover her tracks.
Why?
The question circled him like a vulture. Vivien already lived a life of unimaginable luxury. She had unlimited access to his accounts, a penthouse in Manhattan when they didn't feel like driving to Greenwich, and a front-row seat to the highest echelons of East Coast society. What possible motive could she have for pushing a sixty-four-year-old woman down a flight of marble stairs?
Unless... the wedding wasn't enough.
Nathaniel’s phone buzzed sharply against the mahogany desk, breaking his train of thought. It was a text message from an unknown number:
If you want to know why your mother fell, check the safety deposit box at the Greenwich Trust before noon. Come alone.
Nathaniel stared at the glowing screen. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed his car keys from the tray by the door, pulled his heavy wool overcoat over his shoulders, and strode out of the study without looking back.
Ten minutes later, his black Porsche roared down the long, winding gravel driveway of the Whitmore estate, kicking up frozen slush as it hit the main road.
What he didn't know was that as his car disappeared around the bend, a small figure was watching from the second-floor window.
May you like
Vivien stood behind the lace curtains of her bedroom, her expression entirely devoid of the warmth and charm she wore like a second skin. Her phone was pressed to her ear.
"He took the bait," she said into the receiver, her voice cold and flat. "He’s on his way to the bank now. Make sure the package is waiting for him."
