Chapter Seven – Supper Call

 The Browns were halfway through supper when the landline rang. Edward glanced at the caller ID, chuckled, and pushed back his chair.

“Let me take this one,” he said, fork still in hand.

Janet watched him shuffle into the living room, phone tucked to his ear.

“Hello?… Oh dear, my Microsoft account, you say?” His voice quivered like a nervous old man’s. “Password? Of course, of course. But you’ll have to be patient — I don’t remember things as quickly as I used to.”

Janet smirked. She could hear his act from the kitchen.

“Let’s see,” Edward went on. “It starts with… P, I think. Yes, P. Then maybe an A… oh wait, was it a D?” He dangled the letters, looping back on himself, whistling sotto voce.

After nearly five minutes a harsh click cut him off. The scammer had hung up.

Edward returned to the table grinning, settling into his chair. “They never last long when you make them work for it.”

Janet shook her head. “You enjoy that far too much.”

“It keeps the brain sharp,” he said, reaching for his glass. “Now. Tell me about your Unknown.”

Janet leaned back, staring at her half-finished plate. “I got her to admit she’s here. In Canada. Maybe Edmonton. She slipped about an envelope — cash delivered by hand. For the first time I know she isn’t just a phantom behind a keyboard.”

Edward steepled his fingers. “That’s something. And you’ve pieced together her method: mailing lists, property records, long-distance phone plans. She’s not throwing darts in the dark.”

She lit a cigarette, ignoring the food cooling in front of her. “What am I really doing, Dad? Writing a story, or trying to catch a crook?”

The room went quiet except for the fridge’s faint hum. Edward held her gaze, as sharp as when he’d been on the bench.

“That’s the line you have to walk. As a judge, I wasn’t there to catch them. I was there to weigh them. Your job may be the same — put her words on the record, make the public see how she works. But,” he added softly, “if the story shines a light in the right place, sometimes the cockroach scrambles out on her own.”

Janet exhaled smoke through her nose, voice low. “And if she doesn’t?”

Edward lifted his glass. “Then you still have the truth. And the truth works on people longer than any sentence I ever handed down.”

Janet tapped ash into the tray, feeling the weight of his words. She thought of Evelyn Shaw, alone at a kitchen table with her shame, and of the scammer’s casual bragging. She had pieces now: an envelope, a location, a method. Small cracks in the armor.

“It’s a start,” she told herself. 

Janet sat at her desk the next morning. The newsroom was alive with the clatter of keyboards and the low hum of reporters on the phone. She hadn’t slept much — cigarette smoke still clung to her jacket, and her father’s words echoed: truth works on people longer than any sentence.

She opened her notes and scrolled through the Threema transcripts. Each line of Unknown’s boasts made her skin crawl, but she read them again and again, hunting for threads to pull: envelope. Edmonton. Mailing lists. Property records.

“Brown.”

Her editor, Marianne Keeler, stood in the doorway to Janet’s glass-walled office. Marianne was sharp-eyed and brisk, and she’d run the investigative desk for over a decade. She waved Janet inside.

Janet closed her laptop and followed.

“Where are we?” Marianne asked the moment Janet sat down. “You’ve been digging for weeks, and I’ve got a managing editor asking what we’re paying you for.”

Janet took a breath. “I’ve got her talking. She’s getting boastful, letting details slip. She admitted she’s in Canada — most likely Edmonton. She described how she picked victims, and she let one concrete detail out: an envelope of cash delivered by hand. That means she’s not just smoke and mirrors.”

Marianne leaned back, crossing her arms. “Good. But you know the deal, Janet. We need a story. Something publishable. A timeline. When do I get copy?”

Janet hesitated. She thought of Evelyn Shaw’s son, his voice cracking as he described what the scam had done to his mother, and of her father’s warning: trust first, judgment later.

“This isn’t ready,” Janet said finally. “If I push now she’ll clam up. If I keep listening, she’ll give me more — maybe enough to put a face to her, not just an anonymous green dot.”

Marianne drummed her fingers on the desk. “How much longer?”

Janet fought the urge to light a cigarette in front of her editor. “Give me three months. A full arc of interviews, corroboration, victim voices. By then I can run a feature that strips the mask off her.”

Marianne’s eyes narrowed. “Three months is generous. I can give you six weeks before they start carving up your space. Aim for a long read — maybe front page if you deliver. I want weekly updates. No black holes.”

Janet’s pulse quickened. “You’ll get them.”

As she stood, Marianne added, “And Janet — don’t forget what business we’re in. You might want to catch a crook, but I need a story. Keep that straight.”

Back at her desk, the green dot glowed on Threema. She thought of her father, of Evelyn Shaw, of the envelope. Pieces of a puzzle were beginning to take shape.

Six weeks. That was the clock now ticking over her head.

She cracked her knuckles, took a long sip of coffee, and whispered, “Alright, Unknown. Let’s see what else you’ll give me.”