Chapter 7 - The Ghost of Nora Sloane
Nora Sloane had been forty-eight years old when she died.
She loved gardening, rescued abandoned dogs, and volunteered at a food pantry every Saturday.
Those were the first things her younger sister, Elise, told me.
Not about the property.
Not about the necklace.
About the woman herself.
"People always talk about what Nora owned," Elise said, sitting across from me at a small café. "Almost nobody remembers what kind of person she was."
I understood that feeling immediately.
My grandmother's cottage had become a financial asset in everyone else's conversations.
To me, it was still a home filled with memories.
Elise opened a worn photograph album.
There was Nora laughing in a garden.
Nora standing beside a golden retriever.
Nora holding a birthday cake.
Then Elise turned a page.
I stopped breathing.
In the photograph, Nora wore a thin gold necklace.
The chain rested against the skin of her neck.
It wasn't necessarily the exact necklace Julian had given me.
But the resemblance was chilling.
"Where did she get that?" I asked.
Elise's expression changed.
"It was a gift."
"From whom?"
"A business associate who said he wanted to thank her for considering a property deal."
I leaned forward.
"Do you remember his name?"
She nodded.
"Graham Pike."
My hands went cold.
Elise continued.
"Nora had inherited some land near the lake. Graham wanted it for a development project. She kept saying no."
"What happened after she received the necklace?"
"She started complaining that her skin felt irritated."
Elise looked down.
"Then she became dizzy. Confused. By the time she was hospitalized, she was seriously ill."
Her voice broke.
"The doctors tried everything."
I reached across the table and touched her hand.
"I'm sorry."
Elise blinked away tears.
"After she died, I found paperwork claiming she'd authorized a property transaction. The signatures looked wrong."
"Did you challenge them?"
"I tried. But I couldn't afford the legal fight. And everyone kept telling me I was grieving and imagining things."
She looked directly at me.
"You're the first person who's ever asked me about the necklace."
I felt tears gathering in my own eyes.
For four years, Elise had carried questions nobody wanted to hear.
I promised her something I wasn't even sure I could deliver.
"We're going to find out what happened."
Afterward, we met Ruth at Bell & Finch Jewelers.
She brought out old service records and a photograph of Nora's necklace.
The jewelry had passed through the shop before Nora's death.
Ruth had not recognized the danger until much later.
"I should have asked more questions," she whispered.
"You didn't know," I said.
"I knew something wasn't right."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"And I said nothing because I was afraid of being wrong."
I thought about the stranger on the bus.
"But you spoke to me."
"Yes."
"Why?"
She studied my face for a long moment.
"Because I once knew someone who taught me that protecting people matters more than protecting yourself from discomfort."
"Who?"
Her lips trembled.
"Your grandmother."
I stared at her.
"Grandma Clara?"
Ruth nodded.
Before I could ask how they had known each other, her phone vibrated.
She looked at the screen.
Her face went pale.
"Is something wrong?" I asked.
"My granddaughter."
She showed me a photograph someone had just sent.
It showed twenty-year-old Sophie leaving her university library.
Underneath were the words:
OLD WOMEN SHOULD KNOW WHEN TO STAY SILENT.
I immediately called Detective Ortiz.
She arranged for Sophie to be contacted and warned.
Ruth insisted that she needed to retrieve an old ledger from the jewelry shop's storage room.
It contained records that might connect several suspicious jewelry purchases.
Detective Ortiz told her not to go anywhere alone and arranged for the records to be secured.
But later that afternoon, while investigators were coordinating the collection, Ruth left a message saying she had found something important.
Then her phone went silent.
At seven that evening, Detective Ortiz called.
"Have you heard from Ruth?"
"No. Why?"
There was a pause.
"Her handbag was found near the bus stop."
My heart began racing.
"And Ruth?"
"We haven't located her."
I gripped the phone.
Then another message arrived.
An unknown number.
A short video.
My fingers shook as I opened it.
Ruth sat inside a dark vehicle.
Her green beret was gone.
Someone off camera spoke.
"Tell Morgan what happens when people don't cooperate."
Ruth lifted her head.
Her eyes were filled with fear.
But her voice was steady.
"Don't give them the cottage, Morgan."
The video ended.
May you like
A final message appeared.
NEXT TIME, WE WON'T SEND HER BACK.
