Chương 4
Daniel recognized it immediately.
His father had a strange habit of pressing too hard with a pen, leaving marks on the pages underneath.
Even when he wrote grocery lists, the next sheet would carry the memory of what he had bought.
Eggs.
Coffee.
Laundry detergent.
Simple things.
Things that belonged to a person who seemed impossible to understand.
Daniel zoomed in.
The handwriting was difficult to read.
He grabbed his reading glasses from the counter, the ones he only wore when he was too tired to admit he needed them.
Another small thing his father used to tease him about.
"You're forty years old and already acting like an old man," his father had once said.
Daniel had answered, "Coming from someone who goes to bed at nine thirty, that's impressive."
His father had laughed.
The memory arrived without permission.
That was the part Daniel hated most.
Not the pain.
Not the anger.
The normal moments.
The ones that refused to disappear.
He focused on the document.
The first paragraph was not a confession.
It was a warning.
If Daniel Mercer discovers the truth, the decision must belong to him alone.
No one else gets to choose what he does with it.
Daniel leaned closer.
A second paragraph followed.
I failed my son once by believing I could protect him through silence.
Daniel stopped reading.
His first reaction was anger.
Not sadness.
Not relief.
Anger.
Because even now, even after death, his father had found a way to make everything about what he had done wrong.
Daniel placed the phone on the table.
"Of course," he whispered.
The apartment gave him no answer.
He walked to the sink and turned on the faucet even though there were no dishes waiting.
Water ran over his hands.
He stood there until it became cold.
His therapist had once told him that people often confuse understanding someone with forgiving them.
Daniel had hated that sentence when he heard it.
Mostly because he knew she was right.
Understanding his father would not erase what happened.
It would not give him back fifteen years.
It would not change the birthdays they missed.
The holidays where they sat in different rooms pretending the distance was a choice.
His phone rang again.
Emily.
He almost ignored it.
Almost.
Then he answered.
"Did you read it?" she asked.
Her voice was quieter than before.
"Yes."
"What does it say?"
Daniel looked at the document.
"You tell me."
A pause.
"I haven't seen that page."
"You sent it to me."
"I sent you what I found."
"That is a very careful sentence."
"I know."
He hated that she kept saying that.
It made him feel like the angry one.
Maybe because he was.
"Where did you find this?"
"In Dad's desk."
"You searched his desk after he died."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The silence lasted longer this time.
"Because I knew something was wrong."
Daniel sat down.
The answer was too simple.
"How?"
"Because Dad spent the last month of his life writing letters he never sent."
"To who?"
"I don't know."
"Emily."
"I don't know."
The frustration in her voice surprised him.
Not anger.
Exhaustion.
"I found seven envelopes," she continued.
"All blank."
"Why would he write letters and not address them?"
"I don't know."
Daniel looked at the ceiling.
Their entire family seemed built around those four words.
"I need to see everything," he said.
Emily did not respond immediately.
"Come here."
"Now?"
"Yes."
"Emily, it's almost midnight."
"I know."
"You have work tomorrow."
"I know."
"You have two kids asleep upstairs."
"I know."
Daniel closed his eyes.
There it was.
The thing they both avoided.
The fact that life had continued while they were busy carrying old wounds.
"Then why are you asking me to drive three hours tonight?"
Her answer came softly.
"Because someone came by my house again."
Daniel opened his eyes.
"What?"
"I didn't want to tell you before."
"Why?"
"Because I knew you would come running."
"That is usually what people do when someone says they are scared."
"I'm not scared."
He almost laughed.
"You just said someone came to your house twice."
"I said someone drove by."
"How do you know?"
"Because the same car was parked across the street."
"Same car?"
"Black sedan."
"Do you have a plate?"
"No."
"Did you take a picture?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Emily became quiet.
Then she said, "Because I was more afraid of being wrong than I was of being right."
The answer stayed with him.
Because it sounded exactly like their father.
Their mother had always accused both of them of waiting for perfect certainty before doing anything.
Daniel grabbed his jacket.
"Daniel."
"What?"
"Bring the envelope."
He looked at the paper on the table.
"Why?"
"Because I think whoever sent it wants you to follow what happens next."
The drive to Emily's house took three hours and eleven minutes.
Daniel knew because he checked the clock every few minutes.
He hated that about himself.
He hated needing numbers when emotions became too large.
Distance.
Time.
Money.
Anything that could be measured felt safer than anything that could not.
The highway was mostly empty.
A few trucks moved through the darkness.
A gas station sign glowed beside the road, advertising coffee and breakfast even though it was after midnight.
Daniel stopped there halfway because he realized he had not eaten since morning.
He bought a sandwich he did not want.
The cashier barely looked at him.
"Long night?" the young man asked.
Daniel almost said no.
That was his automatic answer.
But something about the question made him pause.
"Yeah."
The cashier nodded like he understood.
Maybe he did.
Maybe everyone had nights where their lives became divided into before and after.
"Good luck," the cashier said.
Daniel carried the sandwich back to his car.
He sat behind the wheel for five minutes without starting the engine.
Good luck.
Such a small phrase.
Such a useless phrase.
May you like
And yet he kept thinking about it.
When he finally reached Emily's neighborhood, the street was quiet.
