Chapter 11 - The Voice From the Staircase
I had imagined the recording for years.
During the worst nights of my marriage, I dreamed that someone had heard Jason.
A neighbor.
A visitor.
A police officer passing our driveway.
Someone who could confirm that I wasn't imagining what happened.
Then I would wake beside him.
He would be sleeping peacefully.
And I would lie there wondering whether the truth had disappeared with my memory.
Now the recording existed.
But listening to it meant hearing myself on the worst night of my life.
Agent Sloan didn't play it immediately.
She met with me and Daniel in a quiet room.
She explained what the investigators had recovered, what remained under forensic examination, and why the recording would need authentication before being relied upon in court.
Then she asked whether I wanted to listen to the relevant portion.
I stared at the table.
"Does it include the fall?"
"We believe so."
"Does it include everything?"
"No."
"What happened to the rest?"
"The available copy begins after an earlier conversation had apparently started."
I nodded slowly.
"Play it."
Sloan pressed a button.
At first, there was only a faint mechanical hum.
Then Jason's voice.
"Give me the folder, Iris."
I froze.
It was him.
Not a memory.
Not a nightmare.
Him.
"I need to review it," my recorded voice answered.
"You've reviewed enough."
"These numbers don't match."
"Stop."
"Jason, someone changed the incident reports."
A sharp sound followed.
I flinched.
Daniel moved slightly closer but didn't touch me.
On the recording, I said, "Don't grab me."
Jason answered, "Then stop acting like an idiot."
There was a rustling sound.
Footsteps.
My own voice again.
"Eleanor died because she found out what you were doing."
Silence.
Then Jason spoke in a tone I remembered too well.
"Be very careful."
"I want to know what happened to Caroline Mercer."
Another sound.
My breathing became faster.
"You're hurting me."
Jason's voice sharpened.
"You're destroying everything I've built."
"We built it together."
He laughed.
"You think anybody cares about your little drawings?"
I heard myself say, "I'm going to tell the board."
Then Jason spoke.
"If you take one more step toward that phone, you'll regret it."
A pause.
Footsteps.
My voice.
"Don't touch me."
Then a sudden crashing noise.
A terrible, heavy impact.
And silence.
I stopped breathing.
The recording continued.
Jason swore.
Then he said my name.
Once.
Twice.
The second time, his voice sounded almost frightened.
He moved around the room.
I heard a phone being handled.
Then he spoke to someone.
"Get over here."
A pause.
"Now."
Another pause.
"No."
"She's still breathing."
I opened my eyes.
Sloan stopped the recording.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then I whispered, "Who was he calling?"
"Investigators are working to establish that."
I stared at the small speaker.
"I remember the argument."
Daniel looked at me.
"I remember the folder."
I pressed both hands against the table.
"Jason had brought home reports."
"He thought I'd stopped looking at the company records."
"But I found a discrepancy."
Sloan waited.
"The Caroline Mercer report carried my signature."
"I told him it wasn't mine."
My voice trembled.
"He said I must have forgotten."
I swallowed.
"Then I found the original test data."
"And?"
"I told him I was going to contact the board."
My eyes filled with tears.
"That's when he pushed me."
Daniel said my name softly.
But I kept talking.
"I remember landing."
"I remember not being able to breathe."
"I remember thinking I was going to die."
A tear rolled down my cheek.
"And then he stood above me."
I covered my mouth.
"He looked annoyed."
Not horrified.
Not heartbroken.
Annoyed.
As though I had broken something valuable and inconvenienced him.
Sloan placed a box of tissues within reach.
I took one.
"I don't want to listen again," I said.
"You don't have to right now."
I nodded.
For several minutes, I couldn't speak.
Then I looked at her.
"That recording doesn't prove everything."
"No."
"But it supports my account."
"Yes."
"And it contradicts the story Jason told the police."
"Significantly."
I drew a slow breath.
"Good."
Daniel looked surprised.
"Good?"
I nodded.
"Because I've spent six years wondering if I somehow misunderstood what happened."
I looked toward the speaker.
"I didn't."
That evening, Jason called me from a number I didn't recognize.
I didn't answer.
He left a voicemail.
"Iris."
His voice was gentle.
Almost loving.
"I know you're upset."
"I know people have been filling your head with terrible things."
"But we've been through too much together to end like this."
I listened once.
Then preserved the message as Daniel had advised.
An hour later, another voicemail arrived.
This time, he sounded angry.
"You have no idea what you're doing."
"You're letting strangers destroy our lives."
I didn't answer.
The third call came after midnight.
I let it go to voicemail.
When I played it the next morning, Jason was crying.
"Iris, please."
"Remember who we used to be."
I sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, I did remember.
The townhouse.
The prototypes.
The late-night takeout.
The way he laughed when our first machine finally worked.
I remembered the young man who told me I was brilliant.
The man who kissed my fingers after I soldered a difficult circuit.
The man who promised we'd build something that helped people.
Then I remembered my wrist breaking against the kitchen counter.
I remembered the stairs.
The hospital.
The stolen documents.
The years I spent hiding my body.
And I understood something.
Missing the person I thought Jason was didn't mean that person had ever truly existed.
It meant I had loved a version of him he knew how to perform.
I deleted nothing.
I forwarded the appropriate information to Daniel.
Then I blocked the number after preserving the necessary records.
Two days later, Judge Holloway approved a revised protective arrangement concerning direct contact between us in connection with the pending proceedings.
Jason's communications were to pass through counsel.
It was a practical legal step.
But to me, it felt enormous.
He no longer had the right to reach into my day whenever he wanted.
No longer had the right to interrupt my sleep.
No longer had the right to demand that I listen.
That afternoon, Sophie called.
She had spoken with Marianne for the first time in three years.
They cried for almost an hour.
Then Sophie asked whether I would visit them when everything was over.
I said yes.
For the first time, the future felt like something I might actually reach.
At five, Agent Sloan contacted Daniel.
There had been a development involving Charles Whitcomb.
His law firm had notified the divorce court that he was withdrawing from Jason's representation, subject to the court's rules and approval.
I stared at Daniel.
"Why?"
"His firm says potential conflicts have arisen."
"Because he prepared the old corporate transfers?"
"That may be part of it."
I sat back.
"Does that mean he'll cooperate?"
"Not necessarily."
"But something changed."
"Yes."
Then Daniel's phone rang again.
He listened.
His expression sharpened.
"Understood."
He ended the call.
I leaned forward.
"What happened?"
"Whitcomb's own attorney has contacted investigators."
"To say what?"
Daniel looked at me.
"He's discussing the possibility of providing information."
I felt my pulse quicken.
"Against Jason?"
"We don't know the scope."
I stood.
"Daniel."
He met my eyes.
"What if Whitcomb knows what happened to Eleanor?"
Daniel hesitated.
"Then investigators will want to establish exactly what he knows and how he knows it."
I walked toward the window.
Outside, people hurried along the sidewalk.
A woman pushed a stroller.
A man carried flowers.
Two teenagers laughed beside a bus stop.
Ordinary life continued.
Then Daniel spoke behind me.
"Iris, there's another detail."
I turned.
"What?"
"Whitcomb's attorney says he has information about the Eleanor Price Foundation."
I stared at him.
"And?"
"He claims Jason wasn't the person who originally created it."
My stomach tightened.
"Then who was?"
Daniel looked down at his notes.
"According to the preliminary information, the person who arranged its formation was Dr. Nathaniel Reed."
I gripped the window frame.
Reed.
The man who had helped falsify the story of my injuries.
The man who had signed documents while I was unconscious.
May you like
The man who had participated in the company's medical oversight.
And the man who might finally explain why Eleanor died.
