The mud clung to Arthur’s phone, a stubborn, gritty layer that spoke of the creek bed. I took it to the kitchen sink, running warm water over the cracked screen. Each careful wipe uncovered more of its identity, a familiar model I knew Dad had bought just last year.
My mother, Margaret, watched me from the doorway, her face etched with exhaustion.
“Any luck getting into it?” she asked softly.
“Just cleaning off the worst of it for now,” I replied, my voice steady. “I’ll try to get his contacts later tonight.”
She nodded, a small sigh escaping her lips. “I just hope you can find something. He used to keep everything on that phone.”
The weight of her hope settled heavily on my shoulders. She wanted normalcy, a simple recovery of contacts. I had a growing dread it would be far more complicated.
After a thorough cleaning, the phone powered on, displaying a lock screen patterned with an old photo of our family. I tried Arthur’s usual passcode, a combination of family birthdays. It clicked open.
My first task was retrieving his contacts. A quick tap led me to a list filled with names I hadn’t seen in years, neighbors, old business associates, even a few distant cousins. I scrolled, making a mental note to back them up.
Then, I navigated to his recent call logs. Nothing immediately suspicious, just calls to Dr. Hanson and a few local numbers. I checked his messages next. Mostly benign texts from Margaret, asking about his appointments, or reminders from a pharmacy.
My fingers brushed against the calendar app icon. Dad was meticulous about his schedule, so it was logical to check there. I opened it, expecting to see doctor’s appointments and grocery lists.
What I saw instead made my breath catch.
The calendar was unusually sparse for recent weeks, but scattered among the few routine entries were strange, unidentifiable symbols. They weren’t standard emojis. They were geometric, almost hieroglyphic, marking specific dates. A jagged line, a crossed circle, a broken square.
I zoomed in on one such date, marked with a symbol that resembled a key. Beneath it, in a hurried, almost illegible font, was a note: “P. pressure. Missing pages.”
My brow furrowed. *P. pressure? Missing pages?* This wasn’t Arthur’s usual clear, precise handwriting. It looked like he’d typed it quickly, almost in a panic.
I tapped the entry, hoping for more details, but it was just that—a cryptic note beneath an equally cryptic symbol. I scrolled to other marked dates. Another one, on the Tuesday before his accident, had a symbol like an open book. The accompanying text: “Revoke. Thomas block.”
My heart pounded. *Thomas block.* That phrase, coupled with the “Revoke,” painted a chilling picture. Was Arthur trying to revoke something? And was Thomas stopping him?
I looked up from the screen, my gaze unfocused, seeing the mundane comfort of the kitchen through a newly disturbed lens. The cheerful yellow curtains suddenly seemed too bright, too normal.
Margaret was still in the living room, humming a quiet tune. I didn’t want to alert her yet. Not until I understood more.
I returned to the phone, my fingers trembling slightly. I systematically went through every app. Banking apps were locked down, as expected. Email showed nothing out of the ordinary.
Then, tucked away in a folder labeled “Utilities,” I found a sound recorder app. It was not something Arthur typically used. My pulse quickened.
I tapped it open. There were two files, both short, both recorded in the past week. The first was labeled “Memo_0310.” I pressed play, holding the phone close to my ear.
The audio was distorted, muffled by background noise, but Arthur’s voice was unmistakable. It was strained, weaker than usual, even before his injury.
“…pages missing… Peterson… said he had them… but I never saw… need to confirm…”
The recording crackled, then cut out. I listened again, desperate to catch every word. *Missing pages. Peterson.* The name resonated with the calendar entry. A notary, perhaps? A lawyer?
I played the second memo, “Memo_0312.” This one was even fainter, punctuated by what sounded like a struggle.
“…Thomas… always there… can’t… tell… what’s real… Peterson… always agrees…”
The recording ended abruptly with a sharp click, like the phone had been dropped. A cold dread seeped into my bones. This wasn’t about missing contacts. This was about something far more sinister.
My father, frail and injured, had been trying to tell someone something important. He had been trying to warn me.
I gripped the phone tightly, the cool metal a stark contrast to the burning suspicion now raging within me. Thomas’s earlier comments about Arthur being “unreasonably difficult” about his will, Arthur’s terrified look in the hospital, and now these cryptic messages and voice memos. It all coalesced into a disturbing pattern.
Peterson. The name echoed in my mind. Who was Peterson? A quick search in Dad’s contacts didn’t immediately turn up anyone obvious.
I opened the web browser on Arthur’s phone and typed in “Peterson notary near [our town name].” Several results popped up. One, in particular, caught my eye: “Mr. Peterson, Notary Public & Document Services.” The address was a few blocks from Dad’s old office.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was no simple argument about a will. My father, in his vulnerability, had been reaching out, using his phone as a lifeline, desperately trying to expose something. The muddy device was not just a relic of his accident; it was a silent scream for help. The realization that Thomas might be involved in something this deliberate, this calculated, was a bitter pill to swallow. I had always known my brother could be self-serving, but this felt like a betrayal of a different magnitude.
I thought about the tone in Arthur’s voice memos. It wasn’t just fear. It was a kind of desperate urgency, a man trying to document a truth he couldn’t speak aloud. The sheer effort he must have expended, typing those cryptic notes and recording those faint whispers, knowing he might not get another chance.
What “missing pages” was he referring to? And what kind of “pressure” was this Peterson character exerting? It sounded like a well-orchestrated scheme, not just a spur-of-the-moment argument. The symbols, the coded language, it was all so out of character for Arthur, suggesting a need for secrecy, a fear of being overheard. He was trying to hide his communications from someone, and that someone could only be Thomas.
I felt a surge of cold fury. My brother, preying on our father’s vulnerability. It was sickening. I knew I couldn’t ignore this. Arthur was depending on me, even in his current state.
I thought back to the hospital, Arthur’s grip on my hand, his eyes wide with an unspoken terror. It hadn’t been a plea for protection for Thomas. It had been a plea for protection *from* Thomas. The sheer weight of that realization pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating.
This wasn’t just a family squabble anymore. This was a deliberate act of manipulation, possibly coercion, taking advantage of a man who was already battling the natural frailties of age and now a severe injury.
I sat there for a long moment, the phone still in my hand, its screen now dark, reflecting my own worried face. The silence of the kitchen seemed to amplify the whispers I’d just heard, making them seem even more real, more urgent. I knew then that I had to pursue this, no matter what it cost, no matter who it exposed.
The name Peterson, once just a vague possibility, now glowed like a sinister beacon, leading me into a labyrinth of family secrets I was only just beginning to uncover. I had to find out more about this “Peterson” and what exactly had transpired in the days leading up to Arthur’s accident.
I locked Arthur’s phone and placed it carefully on the counter, a silent promise forming in my mind. I would protect him.
+ There are no comments
Add yours