she is present, I cannot legally give you Edmund’s letter.”
Adrian looked at Marissa.
She was holding her phone.
Her face had gone strangely still.
“I may have to call you back,” Adrian said.
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
Marissa stepped closer.
“I just got a voicemail.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know.”
She turned the screen toward him.
Unknown caller.
Timestamp: nine minutes earlier.
“Play it.”
Marissa hesitated.
Then tapped the message.
For several seconds, there was only faint static.
Then an elderly woman’s voice filled the room.
“Marissa, my name is Evelyn Keane.”
Adrian and Marissa looked at each other.
The recording continued.
“You don’t know me, but I knew Daniel.”
Marissa’s hand began trembling.
“I knew he left you the brass key. Arthur Bellamy will have told you by now that I am supposed to witness the opening of Edmund Whitmore’s letter.”
A pause.
Then the woman’s
