Chapter 7 - The Unknown Message
The digital clock on the motel nightstand glowed a sharp, neon blue: *1:15 AM*.
I lay wide awake on top of the crisp white duvet, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. The silence of the motel room was a stark contrast to the emotional whirlwind of the evening. My mind was racing, replaying Dorene’s frantic exit, Melanie’s tears, and the overwhelming sense of relief on my father’s face.
Then my phone, resting on the bedside table, buzzed once.
It wasn’t a loud vibration, but in the quiet room, it sounded like a hammer striking an anvil.
I reached over, picked up the phone, and tapped the screen.
The notification was a text from an unsaved number with a local area code.
*“You think getting rid of Dorene solves everything, Ryan? You don’t even know what your mother left behind in the safety deposit box at First National. Check the registry before you sign the probate papers tomorrow.”*
I sat up instantly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The room was freezing, but a sudden spike of adrenaline warmed my blood.
*First National.*
My mother’s bank. The bank where she and Dad had kept their joint accounts for thirty years—long before Dorene ever inserted herself into the family’s financial affairs.
I unlocked my phone and dialed Dad’s number. It rang four times before a raspy, half-asleep voice answered.
“Ryan? Is everything okay? Did something happen at the motel?”
“Dad, wake up,” I said, my voice urgent. “Who has access to Mom’s safety deposit box at First National?”
A pause on the other end of the line, the rustle of bedsheets, and then Dad clearing his throat. “Wh—what? Safety deposit box? Your mother and I opened one back when we bought the house, but we closed it years ago. At least, I thought we did.”
“Did Dorene handle the paperwork when Mom passed?”
“I… yes, she did,” Dad stammered, fully waking up now. “She took care of all the estate closure documents with the bank lawyer. Why are you asking about this in the middle of the night?”
“I just got a text from an unknown number,” I said, reading the screen aloud. *“‘You think getting rid of Dorene solves everything, Ryan? You don’t even know what your mother left behind in the safety deposit box at First National. Check the registry before you sign the probate papers tomorrow.’”*
Silence stretched heavily down the phone line.
“That was from Dorene,” Dad whispered, horror creeping back into his voice. “She must have used a burner phone. She’s trying to throw one last wrench into the works.”
“Or,” I said, staring at the glowing screen, “she’s panicking because there’s something in that box she didn’t want us to find before the lawyers finalized the estate division.”
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“What kind of something?” Dad asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, grabbing my jacket off the chair. “But First National opens at nine in the morning. And I think we’re going to be their first customers.”
