The upload notification chime was distinct. It was a sharp, two-note sound that Maya had programmed specifically for the podcast app, a digital pavlovian bell that instantly spiked her cortisol levels.
Ding-ding.
In the center of the sunroom table, Maya’s phone lit up.
THE GABLES GHOST: EPISODE 7 - THE CASH
The four women sat around the table, surrounded by the debris of their forensic accounting session. The battery-powered lamps cast long, dancing shadows against the glass walls. Outside, the neighborhood was still dark, the power grid flickering in and out like a dying pulse, but inside the War Room, the air was electric.
“He knows,” Chloe whispered, staring at the phone. “We just found the shell companies an hour ago. How does he know we found them?”
“He doesn’t know we found them,” Maya said, her voice steady despite the rapid thrumming of her heart. “He’s following his own schedule. This is the narrative arc. First the murder, then the cover-up, now the motive.”
“The motive,” Elena repeated, looking at the spreadsheet on her laptop screen where the names Vance, Thorne, and Russo were highlighted in red rows. “Greed.”
Maya reached out and tapped the play button.
The gravelly voice filled the room. But this time, the background audio wasn’t the wind in the reeds or the creepy music box. It was the sound of a shredder. A rhythmic, mechanical grinding.
“We think of suburban evil as passionate,” the narrator began. His voice sounded different today—less like a whisper, more like a gavel. “We imagine the lover’s quarrel. The sudden snap of violence. But the true rot of Bittersweet Court isn’t passion. It’s calculation.”
Maya looked at Sarah. Sarah was gripping her wine glass with both hands, her knuckles white.
“In 1994, the Architects didn’t just build houses,” the voice continued. “They built a vault. They called it the ‘Beautification Fund.’ They told you it was for the hydrangeas. They told you it was for the gates. But flowers don’t cost a million dollars a year.”
Chloe gasped. “He has the numbers.”
“Three shell companies,” the narrator listed, his voice dripping with disdain. “Verdant Holdings. Gables Management LLC. And The Blue Sky Trust. Sounds legitimate, doesn’t it? Sounds safe. But follow the wire transfers.”
Maya looked at her own screen. The names matched perfectly. Verdant. Gables. Blue Sky.
“Juniper Black found the ledger,” the narrator said. “She was working as a temp in the development office. She saw the invoices for materials that were never delivered. She saw the payouts to the Board members. She didn’t die because she was pregnant, neighbors. She died because she threatened to audit the kings.”
“It wasn’t just the baby,” Elena whispered. “The baby was a complication. The money was the threat.”
“And who are the kings?” the narrator asked. “Marcus Thorne. Richard Vance. Anthony Russo. Men who wore blue suits like armor. Men who believed that their zip code gave them immunity from God.”
The audio shifted. The shredder sound stopped. Silence filled the speaker.
“But the kings are dead,” the voice said, dropping to a lower register. “They died in their beds, surrounded by the wealth they stole. They got away with it.”
Maya leaned forward. This was the pivot. This was where the story moved from history to the present.
“But debt is heritable,” the narrator hissed. “The fathers ate the sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge. Look at the houses today. Look at who lives in them.”
“He’s coming for us,” Chloe whimpered.
“Elias Thorne,” the voice named him. “Living in the house his father built on bones. Gambling away the reserves because deep down, he knows the money isn’t his. It belongs to the ghost next door.”
“Rick Vance,” the narrator continued. “Driving a car paid for by a trust fund that was filled with hush money. A bully, just like his father, but without the spine.”
“And the Russos,” he said. “Elena. A healer living on the spoils of a poisoner. Your husband didn’t earn that house, Doctor. His father bought it with the price of a cover-up.”
Elena flinched as if she’d been slapped. She closed her laptop, the screen snapping shut with a loud click.
“They think they are safe,” the narrator said, his voice rising in volume, vibrating with a righteous, terrifying anger. “They think because they didn’t hold the knife, they aren’t guilty. But if you live in the house, you share the sin. If you spend the money, you share the blood.”
Maya held her breath. She was waiting for her name. She was waiting for the accusation against the journalist who lived in the murder house.
But it didn’t come.
“Justice isn’t a courtroom,” the narrator said. “Justice is a fire. And it is time to burn the ledger.”
The episode ended abruptly. No outro music. No teaser for next week. Just dead air.
Maya sat back in her chair. The silence in the room was heavy, like the pressure drop before a tornado.
“He didn’t name me,” Maya said softly.
“Because you’re not an heir,” Sarah said. Her voice was flat, dead. “You bought your house. You have a mortgage. You’re not one of the beneficiaries.”
“He hates them,” Maya said, looking at the dark phone. “Did you hear his voice? He doesn’t sound like a killer reliving a fantasy. He sounds like… a prosecutor. A vigilante.”
“He sounds like he wants to kill our husbands,” Chloe said, tears streaming down her face. “He called Rick a bully without a spine. He knows about the trust fund.”
“He’s not the killer,” Maya said, the realization crystalizing in her mind.
“What?” Elena looked up. “Maya, he knows everything. He has the recordings.”
“He has the recordings because he’s investigating,” Maya said, standing up and pacing the small circle of light. “Just like us. Think about it. The killer—the original killer, the man in the Blue Suit, Garrett or Marcus Thorne—they wouldn’t broadcast this. They wouldn’t want the money trail exposed. They buried Juniper to hide the money.”
“So the Podcaster is… what? A good guy?” Sarah asked incredulously. “He put a bug in your baby’s room, Maya. He poisoned a dog.”
“He’s not a good guy,” Maya corrected. “He’s a different kind of bad guy. He’s an avenging angel. He thinks he’s punishing the wicked.”
“He thinks we are the wicked,” Elena said. “Because we married the sons. Because we live in the houses.”
“He wants to burn the ledger,” Maya repeated. “He doesn’t just want to solve the murder. He wants to destroy the wealth. He wants to bankrupt the families.”
She looked at Chloe. “That’s why he exposed your debt. Not to shame you. To show that the Vance fortune is gone. To show that the justice is already happening.”
“And Elias,” Maya continued. “He exposed the gambling to show that the Thorne fortune is bleeding out.”
“So what’s his endgame?” Sarah asked. “If he wants to destroy the money, he’s doing a good job. Property values dropped ten percent this week.”
“He wants a confession,” Maya said. “He wants the sons to admit what the fathers did. Or he wants the money returned.”
“Returned to who?” Elena asked. “Juniper is dead. She didn’t have any family.”
“Someone cares about her,” Maya said. “Someone cares enough to wait thirty years. Someone cares enough to build a surveillance network. Someone who hated the Blue Suits then, and hates the heirs now.”
She looked at the map of the cul-de-sac on the whiteboard.
“Who was left behind?” Maya asked. “Who was hurt by the HOA in 1994? Not the ones who stayed. The ones who were pushed out.”
“The Millers moved,” Elena said. “The family in my house.”
“And the people in the Thorne house before Elias moved back in,” Chloe said. “The renters.”
“No,” Maya said. “We need to look at the victims. Juniper was a victim. But who else?”
She remembered the conversation with Arthur Henderson. I warned her. I told her to close the blinds.
Arthur hated the Blue Suits. But Arthur was eighty. He didn’t know how to use a VPN.
“We need to re-examine the podcast,” Maya said. “Not as a threat, but as a manifesto. He’s telling us why he’s doing this. He’s giving us the motive.”
“I don’t care about his motive,” Chloe snapped. “I care that he’s targeting Rick. If Rick hears this…”
“Rick is going to hear it,” Maya said. “Everyone is going to hear it. The question is, what does Rick know? Does he know where the money came from?”
“He thinks his dad was a genius investor,” Chloe said bitterly. “He worships the old man’s ghost.”
“Then he’s blind,” Maya said. “Or complicit.”
She turned to Sarah.
“Sarah, you were there. Did Marcus Thorne ever talk about money? Did Tom Garrett ever mention a fund?”
Sarah shook her head. “They just talked about ‘resources.’ About ‘maintaining the standard.’ Tom said the Board had a war chest to deal with problems. I thought he meant legal fees. I didn’t know he meant bribes and hitmen.”
“War chest,” Maya murmured. “That’s exactly what it was.”
She looked at the women. They were no longer just defending their secrets. They were defending their existence. The Podcaster had declared war on their lifestyles.
“He’s trying to divide us from our husbands,” Maya realized. “He painted them as monsters. Bullies. Thieves. He wants us to leave them.”
“Maybe we should,” Elena said quietly. “If they knew…”
“If they knew,” Maya said, “then they are accessories. But if they didn’t know… if they are just dumb sons living on daddy’s money… then they are victims too.”
“I doubt Rick is a victim,” Chloe scoffed.
“We need to find out,” Maya said. “We need to know if the husbands are the killers, or if they are the targets.”
“And how do we do that?” Sarah asked. “Ask them?”
“No,” Maya said. “We follow the money. We found the shell companies. Now we need to find where the money went after 1994. Did it stop? Or is it still flowing?”
She pointed at Elena’s laptop.
“The Blue Sky Trust,” Maya said. “That’s the one connected to the Russos. Can you access the bank records? Do you have your husband’s old passwords?”
Elena hesitated. “I have his old laptop. It’s in the attic. I haven’t turned it on since the funeral.”
“Turn it on,” Maya said.
“And Chloe,” Maya turned to her. “You forged Rick’s signature on the credit line. That means you have access to his financial portal.”
“I do,” Chloe admitted.
“Check the deposits,” Maya said. “Look for monthly transfers from ‘Gables Management’ or ‘Verdant’. If the money is still coming in, then Rick knows.”
“And Elias?” Sarah asked.
“Elias is the key,” Maya said. “He’s the President. He controls the current HOA accounts. If he’s losing money at poker, he’s stealing it from somewhere. If we can prove he’s embezzlement from the Beautification Fund, we have leverage. We can force him to talk about his father.”
Maya walked to the window. The reflection of the four women stared back at her. They looked tired. They looked scared. But they looked united.
“The Podcaster thinks he’s the hero,” Maya said. “He thinks he’s Batman cleaning up Gotham. But he forgets one thing.”
“What?”
“Batman didn’t put bugs in a nursery,” Maya said coldly. “This guy isn’t a hero. He’s a sadist with a microphone. And we’re going to take his mask off.”
She picked up her phone.
Maya: Assignment list: 1. Elena: Audit the Russo estate. 2. Chloe: Audit Rick’s accounts. 3. Sarah: Find out if Garrett is still on the payroll. 4. Maya: Find out who hates the HOA enough to burn it down.
“Who hates the HOA?” Sarah asked. “Everyone hates the HOA.”
“Yes,” Maya said. “But only one person hates them enough to spend thirty years planning a reckoning.”
She looked at the empty house next door. The Cursed House. The Thorne House.
“Elias’s mother,” Maya said suddenly.
“Mrs. Thorne?” Sarah asked. “She died years ago. In a home.”
“Chapter 30,” Maya muttered to herself, her journalist brain slotting the pieces into the outline of a story she was writing in real-time. “We need to look at the victims of the fines. The people who were bankrupted.”
“Elias’s mother was sent away,” Sarah remembered. “After Marcus died. Elias put her in a state facility. It was a scandal. Everyone thought she had money.”
“If Marcus stole the money and hid it,” Maya said, “and Elias put his mother in a pauper’s grave… then maybe the Podcaster is someone who loved Mrs. Thorne.”
“Or someone who knows where the money is hidden,” Elena said.
Maya nodded. The picture was getting clearer. It was ugly, pixelated, and soaked in blood, but it was forming.
“Let’s get to work,” Maya said. “The Podcaster wants a finale? Let’s give him a plot twist.”