At My Husband’s Funeral, His Phone Rang with “Look Behind You” – I Turned, and My Blood Ran Cold

The Lawyer from Pittsburgh

I locked the door behind him and watched through the window as he sat in his car for five full minutes, making calls and watching my house. Finally, he drove away.

I went to the kitchen and made myself tea with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. The box in the shed suddenly felt like a bomb with a lit fuse.

Webb’s visit wasn’t coincidence. Someone knew I’d found something.

The question was who, and how much time did I have before they came back? Richard’s journal sat where Michael had left it on the counter.

I opened it to a random page. “The money trail leads to Hartwell Industries, specifically to CFO David Brennan. But Brennan has protection: county contracts, political connections, financial ties to Judge Morrison. Michael never stood a chance in that courtroom. They owned the jury before it was seated.”

Judge Morrison—I knew that name. He’d retired two years ago, moved to Florida on a pension that seemed awfully generous for a county judge.

I kept reading page after page of Richard’s careful documentation: dates, amounts, names, connections. He’d been building a web, tracking how the stolen money moved through various accounts, how it funded political campaigns and real estate deals, and how it bought influence and silence.

And on the last page, dated two weeks before he died: “Met with someone who can help. Former prosecutor now in private practice. Says she’ll look at the evidence if I can provide corroboration. Meeting again Thursday. Connie doesn’t know any of this. Better that way. If something happens to me, the evidence is safe. M will know where to look.”

Except Michael hadn’t known, which meant Richard died before he could tell him. Which meant I was now holding evidence that powerful people had killed to suppress.

The knock on the back door made me drop the journal. I froze, listening.

Another knock, softer this time. Then a voice, barely audible.

“Mrs. Sterling? My name is Catherine Lewis. I’m the lawyer your husband contacted. We need to talk right now, before they come back.”

I opened the door six inches, keeping the chain engaged. The woman on my porch was younger than I expected, maybe 40, Asian-American, and dressed in jeans and a dark jacket that looked expensive even in the porch light’s dim glow.

She held up her phone, showing me a photograph of herself with Richard. They were sitting in what looked like a coffee shop, papers spread between them.

“Your husband took that three weeks ago,” She said.

“He was careful. Never met me at my office. Never called from his regular phone. He knew they were watching him.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The same people who sent that FBI agent to your door 20 minutes ago.” She glanced over her shoulder.

“Marcus Webb isn’t FBI. Real name is Marcus Weber. Former police detective, fired seven years ago for evidence tampering. He works private security now for Hartwell Industries. May I come in?”

I looked at her phone again, at Richard’s face in that photograph. He looked thinner than I remembered, but he was smiling and hopeful, like he’d finally found someone who could help.

I unlatched the chain.

A Dangerous Knowledge

Catherine Lewis moved through my house like she’d been here before, checking windows and closing curtains.

“Your husband was a remarkable man, Mrs. Sterling. Meticulous, patient, brave. He knew he was dying, and he used every remaining day to build a case against the people who destroyed your son’s life.”

“Then why didn’t he tell me?”

“Because he loved you. Because he knew that knowledge would put you in danger.” She turned to face me.

“I’m guessing that didn’t work. You found his evidence, didn’t you? That’s why Weber showed up tonight.”

“How did you know he was here?”

“I’ve been watching your house since the funeral. I saw Michael arrive. Saw him leave. Saw Weber’s car five minutes later. They’re tracking both of you. Probably have been for weeks, waiting to see if Richard passed anything on before he died.”

She sat at my kitchen table, uninvited.

“So let’s not waste time. Where’s the box?” I didn’t move.

“You could be anyone. Weber had a badge, too.”

“Smart. Good.” She pulled out her phone again and brought up a website.

“Catherine Lewis. Lewis and Associates, Pittsburgh. Criminal defense, civil litigation, corporate fraud. I’ve been practicing for 15 years. Before that, I was an Assistant District Attorney in Allegheny County. I prosecuted white-collar crime until I got tired of watching rich people buy their way out of consequences.”

She slid the phone across the table.

“Call my office number. It’s on the website. You’ll get my voicemail. Your husband’s voice is on it.”

I made the call. Three rings, then:

“You’ve reached Catherine Lewis. Leave a message and I’ll return your call within 24 hours.” Then a second voice, one that made my throat close.

“Ms. Lewis, this is Richard Sterling. I have the documentation you requested. Thursday at 10 would work. I’ll see you then.”

I ended the call, blinking back tears.

“That was recorded three weeks ago.”

“Three weeks and two days. We were supposed to meet the following Thursday. He died on Wednesday.” Catherine’s face was grim.

“I don’t believe in coincidences. Michael thinks they poisoned him, tampered with his medication. Michael’s probably right. Your husband was getting close to something they couldn’t afford to have exposed.”

“He told me he’d found proof, not just of the embezzlement, but of what they did with the money afterward. That’s the piece that makes this bigger than corporate fraud.” She leaned forward.

“Mrs. Sterling, the money Michael supposedly stole didn’t just disappear into offshore accounts. It funded county contracts, bribed officials, and bought a judgeship. We’re talking about systemic corruption involving local government, the courts, and at least three major construction companies. If we can prove that, Michael’s case becomes part of a RICO prosecution. He’d go from fugitive to witness.”

“RICO? Racketeering?” I’d heard the term on crime shows, never imagined it applying to my quiet life in rural Pennsylvania.

“I need to see what your husband collected,” Catherine said.

“Everything. Documents, communications, financial records. And I need it tonight. By tomorrow, they’ll have searched this property top to bottom with a warrant so flimsy it wouldn’t hold up in court, but by then it won’t matter. The evidence will be gone.”

The Raid

I thought about the box in the shed, and about Michael’s warning to trust no one. But Richard had trusted this woman.

He’d taken a photograph with her, left her number in his notes, and planned to meet her the day before he died.

“It’s in the equipment shed,” I said.

“Hidden behind—” The sound of breaking glass cut me off.

We both froze. The noise had come from upstairs, my bedroom window—the one that faced the woods.

Catherine was on her feet instantly, pulling me toward the basement door.

“Is there another way out?”

“The bulkhead, but—”

“Go now. Don’t argue.” We were halfway down the basement stairs when I heard the footsteps above us.

Heavy boots. Multiple people moving with the confidence of men who’d done this before. The kitchen door crashed open.

Someone shouted, “Clear!”

This wasn’t a search; it was a raid. Catherine shoved me toward the far corner where the old bulkhead doors led up to the backyard.

“When you get outside, run for the treeline. There’s a trail that leads to the road.”

“How do you know that?”

“Your husband showed me. He had an escape plan for you. He made me promise if anything happened, I’d make sure you knew how to get out.”

She was working the bulkhead lock, her hands steady despite the chaos above us.

“There’s a car parked half a mile down the road. Silver Honda. Keys under the driver’s side wheel well. Take it. Drive to Pittsburgh. There’s a storage unit.” She pressed a key into my hand.

“Unit 247, Steeltown Storage on Liberty Avenue. Everything your husband wanted me to have is there. Copies of everything in that box plus more. He was still collecting.”

“He made copies?”

“He was dying, Mrs. Sterling. He wasn’t stupid.” The bulkhead doors swung open.

Cold air rushed in.

“Go now. I’ll slow them down.”

“They’ll arrest you.”

“I’m a lawyer. They can’t hold me. But you? If they catch you with that evidence, you’ll disappear just like your son did. Except you won’t come back.”

She practically pushed me up the stairs.

“Go!” I went.

The night air hit me like a slap. Behind me, I heard Catherine shouting,

“I’m an attorney! This is an illegal search! I’m calling the police!” Then gunshots.

Two of them. Sharp cracks that echoed across the empty fields.

The Flight to Pittsburgh

I froze on the grass, every instinct screaming to go back. But Catherine had said, “Run.”

And Richard had made her promise to save me. If I went back now, everything they died for would be lost.

I ran. At 71, running means something different than it did at 20.

My knees protested. My lungs burned. My hips screamed with every step, but fear is a powerful motivator.

I crashed through the underbrush, following a path I’d walked countless times in daylight, now barely visible in the darkness. Behind me, flashlights swept through the trees.

Voices shouted coordinates. They were hunting me like an animal.

The trail seemed longer than I remembered. Branches whipped my face. Roots tried to trip me.

I fell once, hard, my hands scraping across rocks. But I scrambled up and kept moving, because stopping meant dying and I wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet. Not when my son was depending on me. The road appeared suddenly through the trees.

I stumbled onto the shoulder, gasping, and looked both ways. Empty. Dark.

“Half a mile,” Catherine had said.

Which direction? Then I saw it: a silver Honda parked in a shallow turnout 50 yards to my right.

The keys were exactly where she’d said they’d be. My hands shook so badly I dropped them twice before I got the door open.

The engine started on the first try. I pulled onto the road with the headlights off, driving blind until I’d put a curve between myself and the property.

Only then did I risk the lights. Only then did I let myself look in the rearview mirror.

No pursuit. Not yet. I drove toward Pittsburgh in the car Catherine had left for me, with a storage unit key in my pocket and the echo of gunshots in my ears.

Catherine Lewis had been standing in my basement 30 seconds before those shots were fired. She’d told me to run, told me she’d slow them down.

Had she known they’d kill her for it? The highway stretched ahead of me, empty at 1:00 in the morning.

My phone—Richard’s phone—sat in the passenger seat. I wanted to call Michael, to tell him I was alive, to warn him about what had happened.

But Catherine’s words echoed: “They’re tracking both of you.” If Richard’s phone was compromised, calling Michael would lead them straight to him.

I pulled into a 24-hour gas station outside of Butler and went inside to the restroom. The fluorescent lights were brutal, showing me exactly what I’d become: a wild-eyed old woman with scratches on her face and leaves in her hair, looking like she’d crawled out of a grave.

Maybe I had. I washed my face, picked the debris from my hair, and tried to make myself look less like a fugitive.