Chương 7
Dad did not reach for the phone this time.
His hands stayed flat on his knees while Ruiz enlarged the photograph.
The yellow paper on Harrison's lap had been folded into quarters so many times that the creases were nearly white.
One corner was darkened with age.
Dad stared at it.
"Thomas," Ruiz said.
Dad kept staring.
"What does it mean?"
"I don't know."
I knew immediately that wasn't true.
Not because Dad was a bad liar.
Because he was usually terrible at deciding to lie.
He would hesitate, look annoyed with himself, and then tell the truth anyway.
This answer came too fast.
"Dad."
He finally looked at me.
Lily shifted against my chest, and I adjusted her without taking my eyes off him.
"You know something."
"I know what I think it might be."
"Which is?"
He rubbed his palms against his jeans.
Ruiz waited.
Dad looked toward the closed hospital door as if somebody from thirty years ago might walk through it.
"Daniel wrote letters."
Harrison had already said that.
I waited.
Dad swallowed.
"Not just to his family."
Ruiz leaned against the counter.
"Who else?"
"Some of us wrote things down before missions."
"What kind of things?"
"The kind young men write when they're pretending they don't think they're going to die."
His voice had gone rough.
"Instructions."
"Bank passwords?"
"Sometimes."
"Messages?"
"Yes."
"Confessions?"
Dad looked at Ruiz.
"Sometimes."
The word sat heavily in the room.
I glanced at the photograph again.
"What did Daniel confess?"
"I never read his letter."
"But you know what it was about."
Dad's jaw tightened.
"There was an incident."
Ruiz waited.
Dad looked irritated by the silence, which was probably why Ruiz used it.
Finally, Dad continued.
"It happened before Daniel died."
"Military?"
"Contractors."
Ruiz's expression sharpened.
"What contractors?"
Dad shook his head.
"Different world then."
"That's not an answer."
"No."
Dad stood and walked to the window.
He didn't open the curtain.
His reflection stared back from the dark glass.
"Daniel found something he wasn't supposed to find."
The phrase chilled me because people only said things like that in stories until suddenly they didn't.
"What?"
I asked.
"Supplies disappearing."
"Military supplies?"
"Some."
"What kind?"
"Fuel."
Dad paused.
"Vehicle parts."
Another pause.
"Medical shipments."
Ruiz stopped leaning against the counter.
"Stolen?"
"Redirected."
"By whom?"
"We never proved it."
"Who did Daniel suspect?"
Dad's face tightened.
"A logistics contractor."
"Name?"
"Mercer."
I felt the room contract.
"Colin?"
"No."
Dad turned from the window.
"His father."
Ruiz immediately began writing.
"What was his name?"
"Raymond Mercer."
The same surname suddenly stretched across thirty years.
I remembered Colin at our Christmas party, standing near the kitchen island with one hand in his pocket, smiling politely while Marcus complained about his father's generation.
I had thought he was bored.
Maybe he had been waiting.
"Was Raymond prosecuted?" Ruiz asked.
"No."
"Investigated?"
"Briefly."
"What happened?"
"Records disappeared."
Ruiz looked up.
Dad gave a bitter half laugh.
"Yes, records could disappear before everything lived on a server somewhere."
"What happened to Raymond?"
"Came home."
"And Daniel?"
Dad looked at the photograph.
"Daniel died three weeks later."
I felt Lily's tiny fingers press against my gown.
"Did you think those things were connected?"
Dad didn't answer.
Ruiz did.
"You still do."
Dad's eyes hardened.
"I think a lot of things when I haven't slept."
Ruiz ignored the deflection.
"What was in Daniel's letter?"
"I told you, I didn't read it."
"But you knew it existed."
"Yes."
"How?"
Dad's silence returned.
This time it was different.
Protective.
Not of himself.
Of someone else.
I watched his reflection in the window.
"Daniel gave it to you."
His shoulders dropped slightly.
That was answer enough.
Ruiz closed his notebook.
"Tell me."
Dad turned.
"He gave me an envelope the night before our last convoy."
My mouth went dry.
"He told me if anything happened to him, I was supposed to get it to Harrison."
"You did?"
"Eventually."
"Why eventually?"
Dad looked at me.
There was shame in his face now.
Not dramatic shame.
Something older and more stubborn.
"Because I didn't trust what was inside."
"You hadn't read it."
"No."
"Then what didn't you trust?"
"Daniel."
The answer surprised all of us.
Even Dad seemed unhappy hearing himself say it.
"He was scared."
Dad sat again.
"Not normal scared."
He looked down at his hands.
"He thought somebody inside our own support chain knew he'd been asking questions."
Ruiz said, "About Raymond Mercer."
"Among others."
"And Daniel thought the letter might put Harrison in danger."
"Yes."
"So you held it."
"For four months."
Dad exhaled.
"Then I mailed it from another state."
"Why?"
"Because Harrison's mother kept calling command asking about Daniel's last days."
He rubbed his forehead.
"I couldn't keep it anymore."
"What did you expect Harrison to do?"
"Nothing."
Dad looked exhausted.
"I expected him to read his brother's goodbye."
That answer felt true.
Ruiz looked at the photograph.
"If Colin Mercer has that letter now, he thinks it contains something about his father."
"Probably."
"And he thinks you know what."
"Apparently."
"But you don't."
"No."
This time Dad's answer came with anger.
"Then why take Harrison?"
Dad looked at me.
"Because Harrison may have figured it out."
My phone vibrated again.
Ruiz took it before I could move.
A voice message had arrived.
No text.
Just an audio file.
Ruiz looked at me.
"Play it?"
I nodded.
He set the phone on the bedside tray.
A burst of static came through first.
Then Harrison's voice.
"Thomas."
Dad's entire body went rigid.
Harrison sounded short of breath.
Somewhere behind him, machinery hummed steadily.
"I found the ledger."
A man's voice said something too distant to understand.
Harrison continued quickly.
"Daniel wasn't talking about theft."
The recording cut for half a second.
When it returned, Harrison was breathing harder.
"He was talking about names."
Another voice.
Closer now.
"Enough."
Colin.
I recognized him instantly.
May you like
Not because I had heard him often.
Because Colin always spoke as if words cost him money.
