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I fall back onto the bed, cradling the phone on my chest. Now I know the truth. John doesn’t sound drunk in his message to me on the night he died, he sounds drugged. I’m sure of it. I need to tell Bob. I sit up slowly, push myself off the bed, and stand on shaky legs. I hurry back downstairs to the family room.
Bob sits on the couch where I left him. “I’m so sorry to have upset you.”
“Oh my god, I’m so glad you figured out the timing, and I think you’re right. It’s just so horrifying. And you’re not going to believe this, but I have proof that what you’re saying is true. I have a voice mail message from John, the night he died. I really didn’t think anything of it. Not until this moment.”
Bob shakes his head. “We all were rooting for you two to get back together. I knew you two were talking again.”
I am pleased they noticed. “Yes, we were reconnecting.”
“I knew it.” Bob’s such a romantic at heart.
“On the night he died, John texted me. He was miserable. He wanted to come home and couldn’t believe she had forced him to leave his own IPO launch party. He only had to make it through Saturday night. He was flying back here Sunday morning. So, when she served him margaritas, he decided to get drunk.”
“I would have done the same,” Bob says.
“He called me later in the evening. I was asleep. He left a voice mail message. He slurs his words, but I just listened to the message again. In light of the fake will, it’s terrifying.” I drop my head into my palm. “I should have done something that night to save him.”
Bob’s hand is on my shoulder. “Do you still have the texts? Can you play the voice mail message?”
“Yes.” I hand Bob my phone and show him the text series. He sees John’s selfie with the margarita and the “cheers” message. My text back that it looks delicious. And his final text.It’s horrible. Usually she makes good ones, but not tonight. I’m just trying to get drunk. It’s working.
Bob shakes his head. “I mean that’s sad, but not really incriminating.”
“I didn’t think anything of it, either. Not until now because of the timing of the will.”
I find the voice mail message from John. His last words as far as I know. I play his message on the speaker of my phone, causing a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Bob and I stand side by side as John’s strange voice says from the grave, “Hey, listen I’m uh, really, really drunk but I uh, just wanted to call and you know, say hi and well, I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow as soon as I can get out of here I, uh, I will. I don’t feel so good. And, uh—”
“My god. It sounds like he’s gasping for air. The poor man.”
I look at Bob. “His voice isn’t right. That’s not a drunk voice. That’s a drugged voice. I know him better than anyone else. Oh my god, she killed him. She poisoned him. She forged a new will and then she killed him.” I’m shaking with the realization, the revelation of it all. “And I didn’t answer his final call.”
“You can’t blame yourself. You had no idea what she was up to, that she would try to harm him. I mean, they were supposed to be on a romantic getaway. We all should have stopped it somehow. Long before he married that woman.”
I have to agree. “But no one did. And now, John’s dead.”
Bob looks at his hands. “John sounds so sad in that message, and very drunk.”
He’s infuriating. “I know what John sounds like drunk better than anyone, and I’m telling you his voice is off. It’s slurry, he’s not right. She did something to him. I know it. You do, too.”
I turn away from him and walk to the kitchen, open a bottle of wine, and pour us each a glass. I carry them back to the living room, hand him a glass, and sit facing Bob. I try one last time.
“I mean the will is obviously a forgery. John loved Ashlyn more than anything. And she is cut out. It was filed a week before his suddendeath and leaves everything to the person who benefits the most. This isn’t a coincidence. It’s murder.” My voice is shaking. Is it grief? Maybe. John was killed by his young trophy wife. How awful. I take a deep breath.
Bob stands. “You should know that voice mail wouldn’t be admissible in court. But I am convinced, as you are, that she had something to do with John’s death. That’s why I brought this timing to your attention.”
Good. “What can we do?” I stand up, too. Let’s go, team.
“We move forward against Tish. Legally. It’s our best chance for a quick resolution for you and the company and to protect the IPO,” Bob says.
“I agree. Let’s tackle the fake will first.”
Relief softens Bob’s features. He is afraid of Tish, I realize. He likes to focus on the paperwork. That’s fine. I’ll focus on her.
Bob says, “We need to prove John would never write this or agree to it. We take it apart piece by piece to build our case for the probate judge.”
I grab the will from the coffee table and read through it again. “There is no stated position for Tish in the company here. It doesn’t say she is co-president. She has no official title in the actual company.”
