Chương 5
For a moment, both of them seemed to be watching something that was no longer there.
“I knew Dad kept things,” she said.
“Everyone keeps things.”
“Not like him.”
Daniel pulled out a chair.
“Claire.”
She sat down but did not meet his eyes.
“When Mom left, Dad told me not to ask questions.”
“He told me the same thing.”
“No.”
Her voice was quiet.
“He told me not to ask him questions.”
Daniel leaned back.
The difference was small.
It was also enormous.
“What are you saying?”
Claire pressed her fingers together.
“I’m saying Dad was not the only person who lied.”
The sentence stayed between them.
Daniel felt anger arrive first.
Not because he knew Claire was wrong.
Because part of him feared she was right.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I was fourteen.”
“So?”
“So I believed what adults told me.”
Claire swallowed.
“Then I got older and started noticing things.”
“Like what?”
She looked at him.
“Like Mom didn’t disappear.”
Daniel’s chair scraped the floor.
“She left.”
“That’s what Dad said.”
“And you believed him?”
“I was a kid.”
Daniel stood and walked to the sink.
The kitchen suddenly felt smaller than it had the day before.
Their mother had been gone for twenty-five years.
Daniel had built an entire life around one explanation.
She left.
She chose another life.
She chose not to come back.
It was painful.
It was simple.
The possibility that it was false was worse.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Claire looked down.
“Because I wasn’t sure.”
“You could have said something.”
“And then what?”
She looked up.
“You would have done what you’re doing now.”
Daniel opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because she was right.
He wanted answers.
But he also wanted the old version of his life to remain standing.
His phone rang before either of them spoke again.
It was Officer Ortiz.
Daniel answered immediately.
“Mr. Mercer.”
“Yes.”
“We reviewed the letter.”
“And?”
A pause.
“There’s something you need to know before you read it.”
Daniel looked at Claire.
“What?”
“The handwriting is your father’s.”
“I knew that.”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“But the letter was not written eleven months ago.”
Daniel frowned.
“When was it written?”
Ortiz sounded careful.
“Twenty-five years ago.”
The room became quiet.
Daniel gripped the phone tighter.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No.”
“Then why are you telling me?”
“Because there’s another issue.”
“What issue?”
He heard papers moving on the other end.
“The letter was never mailed.”
Daniel looked at the empty doorway leading into the hallway.
The hallway where his father used to stand whenever he wanted to say something and decided not to.
“It was addressed to your mother.”
Daniel looked at Claire.
“It was addressed to Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Then why was it under my floor?”
Ortiz did not answer immediately.
The pause was not dramatic.
It was the kind of pause people used when they were deciding how much damage the truth could cause.
“We found something else in the envelope,” Ortiz said.
Daniel’s hand tightened around the phone.
“What?”
“A second page.”
“Was it hidden?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted to confirm something first.”
Daniel walked away from the kitchen table.
Claire watched him move toward the hallway without saying anything.
She had always been better at sitting with uncertainty than he was.
It was one of the reasons they had survived growing up in the same house with the same father and somehow carried different versions of him.
“What did you confirm?” Daniel asked.
“The letter appears to have been written after your mother left.”
Daniel stopped.
“But you said twenty-five years ago.”
“I said it was written twenty-five years ago.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No,” Ortiz said.
“It isn’t.”
Daniel looked back at Claire.
Her expression had changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“You knew,” he said quietly.
Claire shook her head.
“Not exactly.”
“You knew something.”
“I knew Dad kept a box.”
“What box?”
She looked down at the floor.
“The one he told me never to touch.”
Daniel almost laughed.
It came out as a short breath instead.
“Of course he did.”
The sentence sounded bitter because it was.
His father had created a whole world of locked doors.
Some had actual keys.
Others only required silence.
“Mr. Mercer,” Ortiz said through the phone.
“There is a name mentioned in the second page.”
Daniel returned his attention to her voice.
“What name?”
A few seconds passed.
“Thomas Vale.”
Daniel felt the room shift.
The name meant nothing.
Then it meant something.
Not a memory.
A feeling.
Like hearing a song from a place you had not visited in years.
“Who is that?” Claire asked.
Daniel looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
But the way he said it made both of them understand that was not completely true.
When he was twelve years old, there had been a man who came to the farmhouse three times in one summer.
Daniel remembered because his father hated visitors.
Robert Mercer believed most problems became worse when more people knew about them.
The man had been tall.
Gray-haired.
Always wearing a clean jacket even though he was standing in a dusty driveway.
Daniel had asked his father who he was.
His father had said, “Someone who made a mistake.”
At the time, Daniel thought adults were talking about ordinary mistakes.
Late bills.
Broken promises.
Bad decisions.
He had not understood that adults sometimes used small words to cover large things.
“Daniel?”
He realized Claire was saying his name.
“What?”
“You went somewhere.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“There was a man.”
“What man?”
“I don’t know.”
Claire gave him a tired look.
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend not knowing is the same as not remembering.”
Daniel wanted to argue.
Instead, he sat down.
The kitchen table creaked beneath him.
Outside, someone was mowing a lawn several houses away.
May you like
The sound came and went with the wind.
A normal Saturday morning noise.
