BLOOD ON PALE SILK

Eleanor’s hand froze on the steering wheel.

The burner phone Clara had used to call the cab was turned off, wrapped in foil inside the glove box. The vibrating sound was coming from the bottom of Clara’s purse. Eleanor reached over with her good hand and fished out a sleek, modern device she had never seen before.

It was Julian’s personal work phone.

Clara must have snatched it from his pocket during the struggle on the stairs without realizing the danger. On the glowing screen, an incoming call flashed from an unsaved number.

Eleanor pulled the car onto the muddy shoulder of the winding mountain road, turning off the engine. She carefully slid her thumb across the screen and brought the phone to her ear. She said nothing, maintaining absolute silence.

Over the line came the sound of rhythmic, metallic clicking—like a lighter flicking open and closed.

Then, a low, raspy voice spoke, cold and composed:

“Marcus failed to dispose of the vehicle, Eleanor. The ravine was too shallow. He’s dead, and Julian is rotting in my trunk. But you… you took my property. And I don’t like people stealing from the Vance family trust.”