Chapter 2 - The Ghost at the TableThe heavy mahogany doors of the main dining hall were closed, but the muffled hum of conversation leaked out into the corridor. The family council was in session.
Emmett did not knock.
He didn't need to. When the owner of Howerin Logistics pushes open a door, the world stops to listen. I stood two paces behind him, wearing my mud-stained gardening apron over my clothes—a deliberate, jarring contrast to the polished elegance of the room.
Inside, twenty people sat around a long walnut table beneath crystal chandeliers. Beatrice Ashford sat near the head, looking radiant in a cream silk blouse, chatting softly with Warren Pike. At the far end sat Marcus Howerin, Emmett’s aging, ambitious uncle, shuffling through a stack of acquisition papers.
The conversation died instantly.
Beatrice’s smile froze on her lips. She blinked once, twice, as if she were looking at a specter rising from the grave.
"Emmett," Beatrice breathed, her voice carrying a fragile, theatrical note of relief as she stood up. "Thank God. Warren said your car was delayed by traffic on the bridge—we were so worried—"
"Traffic?" Emmett interrupted, his voice cutting through the silent hall like a razor blade. He walked slowly toward the head of the table, his footsteps echoing against the Persian rug. "Strange. Warren didn't mention traffic when he planned the accident on Talmage Bridge."
Warren Pike’s face turned the color of spoiled milk. He half-rose from his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"Emmett, what on earth are you talking about?" Warren stammered, forcing a nervous, corporate laugh. "You look pale. Did something happen on the way in?"
Marcus Howerin slammed a heavy silver pen down on the table, frowning heavily. "Emmett, explain yourself. We have a multi-million-dollar port acquisition vote to finalize this morning. We don't have time for domestic melodrama."
"You're right, Uncle Marcus," Emmett replied smoothly. He stopped right behind his usual chair, resting his hands on the backrest. "We don't have time for melodrama. Which is why we're going straight to the facts."
Emmett reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the battered, yellowed audio recorder with its cracked corner and rubber band, and placed it squarely in the center of the walnut table.
Beatrice’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. She took half a step backward, her hand flying to her throat.
"What is that?" Marcus demanded, leaning forward.
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"That," Emmett said, his eyes fixed dead on Warren Pike, "is a twenty-dollar recording device belonging to my estate gardener. It captures the sound of hedge clippers, lawnmowers, and treason."
Without waiting for permission, Emmett pressed play.
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