Chương 7
Tom watched him carefully.
“Put it away.”
Daniel did not move.
“You said they know I’m here.”
“I said if they’re calling now, there’s a reason.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Tom looked at the phone.
“It’s the only one I have.”
The call stopped.
For a few seconds, neither man spoke.
The silence felt different than before.
Not empty.
Occupied.
Like the street itself was waiting.
Daniel lowered the phone.
“Who are you afraid of?”
Tom gave a small laugh that carried no humor.
“That’s the wrong question.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re assuming I know the answer.”
Daniel looked at the folder in Tom’s hands.
“You worked here longer than anyone.”
“I worked there.”
“You knew every department.”
“I knew machines.”
“You knew people.”
Tom looked back at him.
“That was my mistake.”
The words landed harder than Daniel expected.
Tom carried the box into the garage.
Daniel followed.
The garage smelled like cardboard, old wood, and motor oil.
A bicycle hung from the wall.
A lawn chair sat folded in the corner.
Normal things.
The kind of things that made the folder on the workbench look out of place.
Tom placed it down.
“You should leave.”
Daniel almost laughed.
“Everyone keeps telling me that.”
“Because sometimes leaving is the smartest thing you can do.”
“And sometimes it’s how people make sure nobody finds anything.”
Tom rubbed his face.
“You sound like your father.”
Daniel froze slightly.
He hated how much that affected him.
Not because he missed the comparison.
Because he missed the person being compared.
“What was he like at work?”
Tom opened another folder.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
Tom looked down.
“He was annoying.”
Daniel blinked.
“What?”
“He asked too many questions.”
A small smile appeared on Tom’s face.
“Not the kind of questions people enjoy answering.”
Daniel leaned against the workbench.
“That sounds like him.”
“He would stand next to a machine for twenty minutes because he thought a sound was wrong.”
“My mother used to say he could hear a problem before anyone else saw it.”
Tom nodded.
“He could.”
The garage became quiet again.
This time, the silence carried something different.
Respect.
Grief.
Regret.
Tom touched the edge of the photograph.
“He wasn’t trying to expose anyone.”
“Then what was he trying to do?”
“Fix it.”
Daniel looked at him.
“People don’t usually destroy someone’s reputation because they’re trying to fix something.”
Tom did not respond.
That was an answer.
Daniel picked up the photograph again.
“Why am I in this?”
Tom hesitated.
“Because your father wanted you to understand the work.”
“I was twenty.”
“You were curious.”
“I was a kid.”
“You were his son.”
The difference seemed important to Tom.
Daniel looked at the younger version of himself in the picture.
He remembered the day vaguely.
The factory had smelled like metal and dust.
His father had taken him in after school.
He remembered being bored.
He remembered complaining.
He remembered his father telling him that people who built things had to understand how things failed.
He had forgotten the rest.
Until now.
“What happened after this picture?”
Tom looked toward the garage entrance.
“Your father filed a report.”
“And?”
“And nothing happened.”
Daniel waited.
Tom opened another document.
“Then three days later, the wording changed.”
Daniel looked at the page.
The language was similar to the reports Karen showed him.
Not identical.
Similar.
“What was the original wording?”
Tom handed him the document.
Daniel read slowly.
“Repeated maintenance concerns were observed and require immediate review before further operation.”
He looked up.
“And the new version?”
Tom pointed.
“Routine maintenance variance noted. Continue standard monitoring.”
Daniel felt his stomach tighten.
“They changed the severity.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Tom sat down in the lawn chair.
“Because stopping production cost money.”
“That’s not enough.”
“No.”
Tom looked older sitting there.
“Money explains a lot of bad decisions.”
“It doesn’t explain people covering things up.”
“No.”
Tom looked at him.
“Fear does.”
Daniel folded the paper.
“Fear of what?”
Tom looked toward the house.
“My wife was sick.”
The answer surprised him.
Tom continued before Daniel could speak.
“She needed treatment. Good insurance. Regular appointments. I had two kids in college.”
Daniel said nothing.
“I told myself I was being practical.”
Tom’s voice became quieter.
“I told myself one changed sentence wasn’t worth losing everything.”
Daniel looked at the documents.
“And was it?”
Tom did not answer.
He did not need to.
The guilt had already answered.
“How long did you know?”
“About the reports?”
“Yes.”
“Eight years.”
Daniel stepped back.
Eight years.
The same number that kept appearing around his father’s death.
Eight years of people carrying pieces of the truth.
“How did my father die?”
Tom looked at him.
The question seemed to hurt.
“Daniel.”
“No.”
His voice came out sharper than he intended.
He lowered it.
“No more half answers.”
Tom looked away.
“He had a heart condition.”
“I know.”
“He was under stress.”
“Everyone says that.”
“Because it was true.”
Daniel waited.
Tom folded his hands.
“But stress wasn’t the only thing.”
The garage seemed smaller.
“What does that mean?”
Tom swallowed.
“Your father was scared.”
Daniel stared at him.
“My father wasn’t scared of anything.”
“That’s what people thought.”
Tom looked at the photograph.
“He wasn’t scared for himself.”
The phone in Daniel’s pocket buzzed.
A message.
He pulled it out.
Unknown number.
One sentence.
Stop digging into things you do not understand.
Tom saw the screen.
His expression changed.
“Delete it.”
Daniel looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because they want you to keep it.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
Tom stood.
“They want you angry.”
Daniel looked at the message again.
“They’re threatening me.”
“Yes.”
“So I should ignore it?”
“No.”
The answer surprised him.
Tom walked closer.
“You should remember exactly what it says.”
Daniel stared.
“Why?”
“Because people who are afraid make mistakes.”
The message disappeared.
Not because Daniel deleted it.
The screen went dark.
He opened it again.
The notification was gone.
May you like
The message remained.
Daniel took a screenshot.
