The days after Eleanor’s funeral were thick with silence. Thomas barely spoke, watching me as if waiting for a mistake. The phone stayed hidden in my bag, untouched but heavy in my thoughts.
One night, after he fell asleep, I turned it on.
There was no password.
Inside were messages, recordings, financial documents. My hands shook as I scrolled. Eleanor had secretly recorded conversations for years—arguments, calls, meetings. Most involved Thomas.
The truth surfaced slowly, then all at once.
Thomas had been living a double life.
There were recordings of him pressuring his mother into transferring property, forcing her into loans, lying about businesses that never existed. Messages showed he had drained her savings, left her drowning in debt—while telling her I was a manipulative opportunist poisoning their family.
One recording broke me. Eleanor’s voice was weak but furious.
“He will ruin you like he ruined me,” she said. “If you’re hearing this, be smarter than I was.”
Her final warning made sense at last.
The next morning, Thomas confronted me in the kitchen.
“You’ve been distant,” he said calmly—too calmly. “Did my mother say anything unusual before she died?”