Chương 7
Carter did not answer.
"You spent years taking from him."
"I know."
"You lied to him."
"I know."
"You watched Finnley go down for something he didn't do."
The words hit me harder because they came from her.
Not because she was admitting anything.
Because she knew.
She knew I was innocent.
My fingers curled around the folder.
Three years.
Three years of my life.
Gone.
And she knew.
Carter's voice became quieter.
"Why did you do it?"
Reagan did not respond immediately.
When she did, the calmness was gone.
"Because someone had to."
"That doesn't answer anything."
"It answers enough."
"No, it doesn't."
I heard movement.
Maybe one of them stepped closer.
"You think Camden was some hero?" Reagan said.
"You think he was protecting everyone?"
Her voice sharpened.
"He destroyed people."
Carter sounded confused.
"What are you talking about?"
"He made promises he couldn't keep."
"To who?"
"To himself."
The answer made no sense.
Not yet.
But something about it felt important.
Reagan continued.
"Your father spent his entire life pretending he was the only person who could fix everything."
"That doesn't explain Finnley."
"No."
A pause.
"Finnley was just the easiest way to make him understand."
My stomach turned.
I covered my mouth with my hand.
Carter went silent.
Then he said the thing I wanted to ask.
"What does that mean?"
Reagan did not answer.
Instead, I heard footsteps.
Moving closer.
I knew immediately.
She was leaving.
I waited.
Counted seconds.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Then Carter spoke.
"Finnley."
I stepped out slowly.
He looked older than he had a few minutes earlier.
Like hearing those words had aged him.
"She knows you're here," I said.
He nodded.
"Yes."
"She knew about the unit."
"Yes."
"She knew about the trial."
He looked away.
"Yes."
I walked toward him.
"How long?"
Carter didn't answer.
"How long did you know?"
His silence told me enough.
I grabbed his arm.
Not hard.
But enough.
"How long?"
"Since before the trial."
I let go.
The anger came fast.
Too fast.
"You knew?"
"I suspected."
"You suspected?"
"I didn't know everything."
"You knew enough."
Carter looked at me.
"I knew Dad was scared."
"Then why didn't you say anything?"
His face tightened.
Because there was the answer.
The ugly human answer.
Not because he was evil.
Because he was afraid.
"I thought I could fix it."
I laughed.
A bitter sound.
"You and Dad."
"What?"
"You both thought you could fix everything."
Carter looked down.
"I was trying to protect him."
"No."
I shook my head.
"You were protecting yourself."
He didn't argue.
That made me angrier.
Because part of me wanted him to fight.
Wanted him to give me a reason to hate him completely.
Instead, he just stood there accepting it.
"I should have told someone."
"Yes."
"I should have gone to the police."
"Yes."
"I should have testified."
"Yes."
Every answer hurt.
But Carter took every one.
"I was scared," he said.
The honesty stopped me.
Not because it excused him.
It didn't.
But because I remembered being scared too.
Everyone liked to imagine fear as something obvious.
A person running away.
A person screaming.
Sometimes fear looked like silence.
Sometimes it looked like pretending nothing was happening.
"What happened to my father?" I asked.
Carter looked toward the storage unit entrance.
"I don't know."
"Reagan said he was alive."
"I know."
"How?"
"I saw him."
I froze.
"When?"
"After your arrest."
The words barely came out.
"Where?"
Carter sat down on the wooden chair.
His shoulders dropped.
"He called me."
"When?"
"The week after you were sentenced."
I stared at him.
"My father called you?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
Carter rubbed his face.
"He said he made a mistake."
"What mistake?"
"He said he underestimated someone."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Stop saying that."
"I don't know."
His voice cracked slightly.
"I swear."
For the first time, I believed him.
Not completely.
Not enough to forgive him.
But enough to listen.
"What happened next?"
Carter looked at the boxes around us.
"He told me he was going to clear your name."
My throat tightened.
"He said he had proof."
"What proof?"
"He didn't tell me."
"Why?"
"Because he thought my phone was being monitored."
I stared at him.
"Your phone?"
"Yes."
"By who?"
Carter looked at me.
"Reagan."
The name felt heavier every time I heard it.
"What did you do?"
"I asked him where he was."
"And?"
"He wouldn't tell me."
"Why?"
"Because he thought I was already involved."
The words hurt.
Because they sounded like something my father would believe.
Not because Carter was evil.
Because Carter had spent years making himself unreliable.
My father had loved him.
But love did not erase patterns.
"Did you see him again?"
Carter shook his head.
"No."
"Then how do you know he was alive?"
"Because he sent me something."
"What?"
Carter reached into his wallet.
He pulled out a small folded piece of paper.
Not old.
Not worn.
A recent copy.
He handed it to me.
It was a note.
Three words.
Protect Finnley.
My hands started shaking.
My father’s handwriting.
Again.
I looked up.
"When did you get this?"
"Six months after his call."
"From who?"
Carter swallowed.
"It was left at my apartment."
"By who?"
"I don't know."
I stared at the note.
The same answer.
Again.
But this time, I understood something.
The missing pieces were not missing because nobody knew.
They were missing because everyone was afraid of what would happen if they were found.
A sound came from outside.
A car engine.
Carter looked toward the entrance.
His face changed.
"Someone followed you."
I turned.
"How do you know?"
"Because I parked two streets away."
"What?"
"I didn't want anyone seeing my car here."
The anger returned.
"You knew this was dangerous and still came?"
He looked at me.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Carter stood.
"Because I spent three years making the wrong choice."
May you like
He took a breath.
"And I don't want to make another one."
