Chapter 3 - Ethan’s Missing Phone
The judge gave me temporary guardianship for fourteen days.
It should have felt like victory.
It didn't.
Leo left the courthouse in a wheelchair because the cast made crutches impractical. Maya rode on my hip. Reporters waited beyond the courthouse steps, shouting questions about organized crime, child abuse, Ethan’s estate, and whether I had orchestrated the allegations against Rebecca to steal my brother’s inheritance.
Leo buried his face against my coat.
That made the decision easy.
I stopped.
My lawyer whispered, “Thomas, don't.”
I ignored him.
I faced the cameras.
“These children are not part of your story.”
The questions continued.
I raised my voice.
“You want to write about me, write whatever you want. Leave their names, schools, medical records, and photographs out of it.”
One reporter shouted, “Are the abuse allegations true?”
“Ask police.”
“Did Rebecca Moretti break Leo’s leg?”
I looked directly at him.
“A six-year-old boy is sitting ten feet away. Think about what you're shouting.”
Silence spread through several reporters.
Not all.
Enough.
At home, I changed everything.
No meetings in the house.
No armed captains wandering through the foyer.
No business conversations near the children.
Security remained, but discreetly.
Leo received the downstairs guest suite because stairs were impossible.
Maya refused to sleep alone.
The first night she slept beside him.
At 2:30 a.m., I found both awake.
Leo whispered:
“Can door stay open?”
“Always.”
Maya asked:
“Even bad?”
“What?”
“If we bad.”
I sat on the floor beside their bed.
“Doors in this house don't lock children inside.”
Leo looked at me.
“What if we make mess?”
“We clean it.”
“What if Maya screams?”
“She probably will.”
Maya frowned.
“I don't scream.”
Leo gave me a look.
I almost laughed.
“What if I lie?”
“We talk about why.”
“What if I break lamp?”
That one hurt.
“We buy uglier lamps.”
He smiled.
Small.
But real.
The next afternoon, Detective Ruiz called.
They had opened Ethan’s phone.
I met her at the police department rather than bring police into the house unnecessarily.
The phone contained dozens of ordinary things.
Photographs of Leo playing soccer.
Videos of Maya learning words.
Messages to clients.
Arguments with me.
Then, during the month before his death, Ethan started recording voice memos.
Ruiz played the first.
My brother's voice filled the room.
“March third. Rebecca moved money from the children’s household account again. She says it’s therapy expenses. Leo hasn’t seen a therapist.”
My hands tightened.
Another.
“March seventh. Calvin Shaw says the trust allows discretionary withdrawals. I read the document. He’s lying.”
Another.
“March ninth. Leo told me Rebecca shuts him downstairs when he cries at night. She says he misunderstood. I don’t believe her anymore.”
I stopped breathing.
Ethan knew.
He had started seeing it.
Why had he not called me?
The next recording answered.
“I almost called Thomas today.”
I closed my eyes.
“I didn't. I told him I wanted the kids away from his world, and now asking him for help feels like admitting I was wrong.”
My throat closed.
Stubborn idiot.
Just like me.
“If I’m wrong about Rebecca, I destroy my marriage. If I’m right, I’ve left my children with someone dangerous.”
The next memo was dated two days before Ethan died.
His voice sounded different.
Afraid.
“I found the basement camera.”
Ruiz looked at me.
“Rebecca says it’s for safety. Calvin says I’m paranoid. Tomorrow I’m meeting an accountant named Owen Kerr. If the trust money is gone, I'm taking the kids and calling Thomas.”
Tomorrow never came.
Ethan died that night.
“Where’s Owen Kerr?” I asked.
Ruiz opened a file.
“Missing.”
My blood chilled.
“Since when?”
“Three months.”
The week Ethan died.
“What do police know?”
“His wife reported him missing. His car was found at the airport. No evidence he boarded a flight.”
Rebecca’s case was no longer only abuse.
It was intersecting with two disappearances and one death.
Ruiz continued.
“We reopened Ethan’s death investigation.”
“He had a heart attack.”
“That is what the original examination concluded.”
“What changed?”
“His toxicology was limited because no foul play was suspected.”
“And now?”
“We requested preserved samples.”
I understood.
“Could someone have caused it?”
“We don't know.”
The responsible answer.
I hated it.
Then Ruiz played the final recording.
Time stamp: 8:41 p.m.
Less than four hours before Ethan collapsed.
“Tom, if something happens—”
My brother stopped.
Started again.
“God, this sounds stupid.”
I could hear him breathing.
“If something happens and this phone reaches you, take the kids.”
My eyes burned.
“I know what I made you promise. Forget it.”
I covered my mouth.
“You're dangerous, Thomas. I've said it a thousand times.”
Even Ruiz almost smiled.
“But you love them. And right now I don't know who else does.”
Silence.
Then:
“Don't turn them into Morettis like Dad turned us into Morettis.”
I laughed through tears.
Of course that would be his final instruction.
“Let Leo be soft if he wants. Let Maya be loud. Let them grow up knowing they can leave any room.”
My brother's voice broke.
“And tell them I loved them more than I knew how to say.”
The recording ended.
I sat there.
Thomas Moretti.
Man people supposedly feared.
Unable to move.
Ruiz gave me several minutes.
Finally I asked:
“Was that the last recording?”
“No.”
I looked up.
“There is one more.”
She played it.
Only twelve seconds.
A man's voice.
Not Ethan.
A door opening.
Rebecca saying:
“You weren't supposed to come tonight.”
Then another male voice:
“Ethan knows about Kerr.”
Ruiz paused the recording.
“Recognize him?”
I listened again.
Three times.
Yes.
I knew the voice.
Calvin Shaw.
Rebecca’s lawyer.
The same man who had stood in court yesterday accusing me of being too dangerous to raise my brother’s children.
The recording continued.
A third voice entered.
Ethan.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?”
Then abrupt movement.
The phone apparently dropped.
The rest was muffled.
A chair scraped.
Rebecca shouted.
Ethan said one clear sentence:
“Stay away from my children.”
Then the recording ended.
I stood.
“Arrest them.”
Ruiz remained calm.
“We need more.”
“They were there.”
“Being present isn't murder.”
“Shaw lied about the trust.”
“Not murder.”
“Rebecca abused the kids.”
“Still not proof of Ethan’s death.”
I hated law when it moved slower than rage.
Ruiz leaned forward.
“This is why I need you to stay out.”
I looked at her.
“You think I'm going to kill Shaw.”
“I think you've spent twenty years being surrounded by people who solve problems outside courts.”
Fair.
“But if you touch him, every defense attorney involved will claim this entire investigation was intimidation.”
That stopped me.
Rebecca wanted me to become Thomas Moretti.
The version newspapers described.
The version Ethan hated.
If I did, she could point at me and tell the judge:
See?
I was protecting the children from him.
I sat again.
“What do you need?”
“Time.”
“I hate that answer.”
“I know.”
Then she slid another photograph across the table.
Owen Kerr.
Forensic accountant.
Beneath it:
A storage-unit receipt.
Purchased under an alias one day before he vanished.
Police had just found the unit.
Inside was a laptop.
And on that laptop was a spreadsheet showing nearly six million dollars missing from Leo and Maya’s trusts.
The transfers all led through companies connected to Calvin Shaw.
May you like
And the final column bore one word repeated beside every payment.
REBECCA.
