Chương 7
The question sounded different now.
Not angry.
Hurt.
The attorney hesitated.
"Because she may not have wanted anyone to know."
That answer was difficult.
But believable.
Adults had private lives.
Even adult children.
Even loved ones.
The discovery created a new kind of pain.
Not because their daughter had done something wrong.
Because they realized how much of her life existed outside their understanding.
Sylvester spent that night in his office.
Not working.
Just sitting.
He looked at old photographs.
He looked at messages.
He looked at every piece of evidence that suggested he had known his daughter better than he actually had.
Eleanor found him there after midnight.
"You should sleep."
He smiled faintly.
"You sound like me."
"I hate that."
"Me too."
She sat across from him.
For a while, they looked through the photographs together.
Not searching.
Remembering.
"I was a terrible mother sometimes," Eleanor said.
Sylvester did not rush to disagree.
That surprised her.
"I was a terrible father sometimes too."
She looked at him.
"You?"
He smiled sadly.
"I wasn't there for every moment."
"Neither was I."
"No."
The honesty was uncomfortable.
But it was also freeing.
They had spent years fighting guilt by choosing different versions of the story.
Eleanor blamed herself for being too controlling.
Sylvester blamed himself for being too absent.
The truth was messier.
They had both loved their daughter.
They had both failed her in ways.
They had both given her things she needed.
That was what made grief complicated.
Love and regret could exist in the same place.
The next morning, Daniel Mercer called.
Sylvester almost did not answer.
The unknown number appeared on his phone while he was walking through the house.
He looked at it.
Then at the doll sitting on the table.
Then he answered.
"Hello?"
There was silence.
A man's voice finally came through.
"Mr. Stallone."
Sylvester stopped walking.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Daniel Mercer."
The name that had been sitting in documents for days was suddenly attached to a living person.
A person who sounded nervous.
"I believe you're looking for answers about your daughter."
Sylvester tightened his grip on the phone.
"Where are you?"
Another pause.
"I should have called years ago."
The sentence changed everything.
Because it meant Daniel had known.
And he had waited.
"Why didn't you?"
The answer came quietly.
"Because your daughter asked me not to."
Sylvester looked toward the living room.
The doll remained where Ava had left it.
Waiting.
Like it had been waiting for years.
"What did she ask you to hide?" Sylvester asked.
Daniel breathed in.
"Not what she asked me to hide."
A pause.
"What she asked me to protect."
The words stayed with Sylvester long after the call ended.
He had expected anger.
He had expected excuses.
He had expected someone trying to protect himself.
He had not expected the possibility that Daniel Mercer had been protecting his daughter’s wishes.
"Where are you?" Sylvester asked.
"I can meet you."
"That wasn't my question."
Another silence.
Daniel sounded like someone choosing every word carefully.
"Some conversations shouldn't happen over the phone."
Sylvester looked toward the hallway.
Eleanor was standing there now.
She had seen his expression change.
She did not ask who it was.
She already knew.
"Tomorrow," Daniel said.
"Where?"
"A coffee shop near the old park."
Sylvester frowned.
"Why there?"
"Because that's where she and I used to talk."
The sentence created a strange feeling in the room.
Used to.
Two words that belonged to a relationship Sylvester had never known existed.
"Ten in the morning," Daniel continued.
Then the call ended.
Sylvester lowered the phone.
Eleanor waited.
"That was him."
He nodded.
"What did he say?"
Sylvester looked at the table where Ava's doll rested.
"He knew her."
Eleanor's face changed slightly.
Not jealousy.
Not anger.
Something closer to grief finding a new shape.
"How well?"
"I don't know."
That answer bothered both of them.
Not knowing had become the hardest part of losing someone.
Death created a permanent absence.
But secrets created an endless series of questions.
The next morning, Sylvester arrived early.
He sat in the corner of the coffee shop and watched people move through their ordinary routines.
A woman answered emails at a small table.
A man argued quietly on the phone outside.
A teenager struggled with a backpack zipper.
Nobody around him knew that he was waiting to meet someone who might explain a missing part of his daughter's life.
That was the strange thing about grief.
The world could contain enormous personal moments while everyone else continued buying coffee.
Daniel arrived five minutes late.
He was younger than Sylvester expected.
Late thirties.
Tired eyes.
A plain jacket.
The kind of person who could disappear in a crowd.
He stopped beside the table.
"Mr. Stallone?"
Sylvester nodded.
"Daniel."
Daniel sat down.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
The resemblance was not physical.
But there was something about the way Daniel looked at the table before speaking that reminded Sylvester of his daughter.
A habit of preparing words before releasing them.
"You knew her for how long?"
"Almost three years."
Sylvester absorbed the answer.
"Three years."
Daniel nodded.
"Yes."
"And nobody in our family knew."
Daniel looked uncomfortable.
"She wanted it that way."
"Why?"
Daniel looked out the window.
"Because she didn't want every relationship in her life to be connected to her family."
The sentence hurt.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was understandable.
Sylvester leaned back.
"My daughter was sick."
"I know."
"She was raising Ava."
"I know."
"Then why didn't she tell us about you?"
Daniel looked down.
"Because she knew you loved her."
Sylvester frowned.
"That doesn't answer the question."
"No."
Daniel paused.
"But it is the reason."
He took a breath.
"Your daughter told me that everyone in her life loved a different version of her."
Sylvester stayed quiet.
"Her friends saw the person who laughed too loudly and forgot appointments."
May you like
Daniel smiled faintly.
"Her coworkers saw the person who stayed late because she felt guilty leaving unfinished work."
