Chương 8
Outside, a car door closed.
Neither of us moved.
The storage unit suddenly felt like the smallest place in the world.
Carter grabbed the folder.
"Take the documents."
"What about you?"
"No."
He looked at me.
"Finnley."
"You already sacrificed me once."
His face fell.
"You don't get to sacrifice yourself now and call it different."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then, unexpectedly, Carter nodded.
A small movement.
A surrender.
"Okay."
We moved toward the back exit together.
Not as brothers.
Not yet.
But as two people who had finally stopped lying about how broken everything was.
And as we stepped into the narrow space behind the storage units, my phone started ringing.
I looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
Carter stopped walking.
"Don't answer that."
I stared at the phone.
A message appeared before the call ended.
One sentence.
One sentence that made my blood turn cold.
I know you found your father's files.
A second message appeared.
And if you want to know where Camden Dennis really is, come alone.
I stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
I did not notice the cold air around me anymore.
I did not notice the narrow passage between the storage units.
I did not notice Carter saying my name.
All I saw were the words.
I know you found your father's files.
And below them.
If you want to know where Camden Dennis really is, come alone.
Carter took a step closer.
"What did it say?"
I locked the phone.
"Nothing."
His expression changed immediately.
"Don't lie to me."
The irony almost made me laugh.
Three years ago, I would have hated hearing those words from him.
Now I hated how much I understood them.
"Someone knows we found the files."
Carter went still.
"Who?"
"Unknown number."
"Let me see."
I handed him the phone.
He read the messages twice.
Then he looked at me.
"No."
The answer came so quickly that I knew he understood more than he was saying.
"No what?"
"You're not going."
I took the phone back.
"You don't get to decide that."
"Finnley."
"No."
My voice rose.
"You spent years deciding what was best for everyone."
Carter flinched.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Use my mistakes as a reason to make another one."
The sentence stopped me.
Because it sounded like something my father would have said.
Not in a lecture.
Not with anger.
Just quietly.
Like he was disappointed because he expected better.
I hated that Carter sounded like him.
"Then what do you suggest?"
Carter looked toward the street.
"We leave."
"And go where?"
"Somewhere public."
"Then what?"
"We figure out who sent it."
I shook my head.
"You don't understand."
"I understand enough."
"No."
I held up the phone.
"If my father is alive, I need to know where he is."
Carter's face changed.
Not because he disagreed.
Because he understood.
For three years, I had carried a question that nobody could answer.
Why did he leave me?
Why didn't he come?
Why didn't he fight?
Now there was a chance those questions had been built on a lie.
And nothing was stronger than a person trying to repair a wound they thought would never close.
"I know," Carter said.
The anger in his voice disappeared.
"I know you need to know."
I looked at him.
"But?"
"But whoever sent that message knows what you want."
He handed the phone back.
"That makes you vulnerable."
I hated that he was right.
The worst thing about prison was not losing freedom.
It was learning how much of yourself you had to hide.
You learned not to react.
Not to show fear.
Not to show excitement.
Because someone always noticed.
And people used whatever they noticed.
I looked down at the phone.
The unknown number remained there.
Waiting.
"How do we find out who it is?"
Carter looked at the storage unit.
"Your father probably left more than these files."
"You think?"
"He always had backups."
That sounded familiar.
My father never trusted technology completely.
He printed everything.
Saved everything.
Kept handwritten notes.
He once told me computers were useful but people were lazy when they believed a password meant something was safe.
We moved back into the unit.
This time, I stopped looking at everything as a son.
I looked at it like evidence.
The difference hurt.
Because every object belonged to a man I loved.
But every object might also contain proof of why he was gone.
Carter opened the filing cabinet.
I searched through the boxes.
Minutes passed.
Nothing.
Just old documents.
Receipts.
Company records.
Then Carter stopped.
"Finnley."
I looked over.
He was holding a small notebook.
Black cover.
No label.
"Where was that?"
"Behind the cabinet."
He opened it.
The first pages were empty.
Then he turned to the middle.
My father's handwriting.
I moved closer.
The page was not a letter.
It was a list.
Names.
Dates.
Numbers.
At the top, one word.
Witnesses.
I scanned the names.
Employees.
A former accountant.
A supplier.
Then one name made me freeze.
Harold.
"The groundskeeper?"
Carter looked at me.
"You know him?"
"He gave me the key."
Carter's expression changed.
"He gave you the key?"
"Yes."
"Who else knows?"
"Nobody."
I looked at the notebook again.
My father had been keeping track of people.
Not randomly.
Carefully.
Next to each name were notes.
Some were short.
Some were only initials.
Harold's name had one sentence beside it.
Trust him.
I swallowed.
My father had trusted Harold.
But there was another note below it.
If anything happens, make sure Finnley does not investigate alone.
I felt anger before sadness.
Because that was my father.
Even after everything.
Even after prison.
Even after leaving me without answers.
He was still trying to protect me.
Carter read the note.
"He knew."
"Knew what?"
"That something could happen."
The room became quiet.
A horrible thought formed.
"What if he wasn't trying to disappear?"
May you like
Carter looked at me.
"What do you mean?"
