Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Christmas Past
The snow had turned into a thick, gray slush by the time Michael’s town car pulled up to the curb outside a dilapidated brownstone in the Pilsen neighborhood. The street was quiet, the Christmas decorations in the windows looking sad and faded in the afternoon light.
According to the private investigator Arthur had hired, Eleanor Vance and her daughter were temporarily staying in a small, one-room basement apartment belonging to Eleanor’s sister, Clara.
Clara was a schoolteacher, her own salary barely enough to cover the rent on the drafty apartment, but she had taken her sister and niece in without hesitation.
Michael stepped out of the car, his wool coat collar pulled up against the biting wind. He felt entirely out of place in this neighborhood, his expensive leather boots slipping on the un-shoveled steps. He descended the concrete stairs to the basement entrance, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He knocked on the heavy wooden door.
A moment later, it swung open. Eleanor stood there, wearing a thick gray sweater that looked three sizes too big for her. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun, and her eyes were red-rimmed and tired.
When she saw Michael, her face hardened instantly.
"Mr. Patterson," she said, her hand gripping the edge of the door. "I thought I made myself clear at the diner. We don't want your money."
"Mrs. Vance," Michael said, taking off his leather gloves. "I’m not here to offer you money. I’m here to show you something."
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a worn, yellowed envelope. It was a letter he had found in his wife Sarah’s personal desk the night before.
"My wife, Sarah, died three years ago," Michael said, his voice quiet. "She was a wonderful woman, but she was also a very lonely one. I was always working. Always on a plane. Always in a meeting. After she died, I couldn't bear to look at her things, so I locked her desk and never opened it."
He held the letter out to Eleanor. "Last night, I opened it. I found this. It’s a letter from your husband, David. He wrote it to Sarah’s foundation three weeks before he died."
Eleanor’s hand trembled as she looked at the envelope. She recognized the neat, blocky handwriting instantly. It was David’s.
"David didn't write to me," Eleanor whispered, her voice cracking. "Why would he write to your wife's foundation?"
"Because he knew Patterson Infrastructure was cutting corners," Michael said. "He had tried to raise the safety concerns through the official channels, but his supervisors threatened to fire him and blacklist him from the union. He was desperate. He had heard about Sarah’s foundation—she funded healthcare initiatives for low-income workers in the city. He wrote to her, asking for help to get the city inspectors to look at the filtration plant."
He stepped closer, his eyes pleading. "Sarah never saw the letter, Mrs. Vance. She was already in the hospital by the time it arrived. Her secretary filed it away in her personal correspondence, and it was moved to our house after her death. I never saw it. If I had... if I had opened that desk three years ago, David would still be alive today."
Eleanor stared at the letter, her tears finally breaking past her defenses, leaving hot, wet tracks down her cold cheeks. She took the envelope from his hand, her fingers brushing his.
"He was so scared," she whispered, her voice breaking. "He didn't tell me how bad it was because he didn't want me to worry. He just kept saying that once I finished school, we’d move out of the city. We’d get a little house with a yard for Lily."
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She looked up at Michael, her eyes a mix of grief and anger. "You built this world, Mr. Patterson. You built the company that killed him, and then you built the wall that kept his voice from being heard."
"I know," Michael said, his own eyes burning. "And I’m going to tear it down. But I need your help to do it."
