Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Richard Halstead
As the officers hauled Evan kicking and screaming through the double doors toward the foyer, the dining room fell into a heavy, profound silence.
Miriam Cole let out a long breath, closing her briefcase with a crisp snap. “Well. That concluded significantly faster than anticipated.”
“Thank you, Miriam, Jonathan, Sarah,” I said, looking around the table at the three people who had helped me protect everything my late husband had built. “Please, stay. The prime rib is getting cold, and we have one final piece of business to attend to.”
Detective Sterling shook her head, pausing near the doorway. “I need to escort the suspect back to the precinct for booking, Mrs. Halstead. But I’ll return tomorrow morning for your formal victim impact statement.”
“Take your time, Detective,” I replied.
After the front door closed, sealing out the flashing red and blue lights of the police cruisers parked in our circular driveway, I stood up from my chair. My hip throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, but my mind was sharper and clearer than it had been in months.
I walked slowly across the Persian rug toward Richard’s private study at the far end of the hallway.
The study smelled of aged leather, cedarwood, and the faint pipe tobacco my husband had favored during his final years. The grand oil portrait of Richard Halstead—painted twenty years ago when he was at the height of his business career—hung proudly above the stone fireplace.
I reached up, pressing the concealed spring beneath the mahogany frame. The portrait swung outward smoothly, revealing the heavy iron door of the wall safe.
I spun the dial: right 42, left 18, right 7.
The heavy steel door swung open. Inside sat a single, manila envelope sealed with red wax and stamped with Richard’s personal notary seal. Across the front, written in his bold, steady handwriting, were the words:
FOR EVAN, IF HE BECOMES THE MAN I FEAR.
May you like
My fingers brushed against the wax seal. For months, I had hoped against hope that Evan would prove his father wrong—that underneath the arrogance and the expensive suits, there was still a decent man. But tonight proved that Richard had known his son better than anyone.
I pulled the letter from the safe, walked back to the dining room, and laid it gently in the center of the table, right beside Evan’s empty plate.
