Chương 7
“And?”
“And when I left, there was one.”
Daniel looked at the front door.
The lock.
The hallway.
The empty space beside the letter.
Someone had not only entered his apartment.
Someone had been looking for something.
And they had already found it.
Daniel did not move for several seconds.
The refrigerator hummed behind him, and somewhere outside a car alarm started and stopped before anyone paid attention.
Normal life continued with an almost insulting confidence.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“At home.”
“Did you tell anyone about the letter?”
“No.”
“Did anyone see you take the envelope?”
Mara hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
That answer bothered him more than if she had said yes.
“Think.”
“I am thinking.”
“No, you’re trying to solve it before you admit you’re scared.”
The sharpness in her voice returned.
“You’re doing the same thing.”
Daniel looked at the letter again.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re looking for the person who did this because that’s easier than looking at what Dad wrote.”
He almost argued.
Then he stopped.
Because there was truth in it, and he hated when Mara found the exact place where he was avoiding something.
“I’m coming over,” she said.
“You already did that once today.”
“I know.”
“And you broke into my apartment.”
“I used a key.”
“That is not better.”
“It is slightly better.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
For a second, despite everything, the old rhythm between them appeared.
The same rhythm they had before their father’s funeral, before the arguments became more frequent than the conversations.
“You still make terrible jokes when you’re nervous,” he said.
“I still make terrible jokes when you’re not nervous.”
“That’s true.”
The brief moment disappeared quickly.
Neither of them wanted to pretend it fixed anything.
“I’m leaving now,” Mara said.
“Don’t drive like you’re angry.”
“I never drive angry.”
“You once drove thirty miles to tell me I was wrong.”
“You were wrong.”
“You don’t even remember what the argument was about.”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
She ended the call.
Daniel placed the phone on the table.
Then he picked it back up and checked the call history.
Not because he expected anything.
Because doing something felt better than standing still.
There was one missed call from an unknown number from earlier that afternoon.
The call had lasted twelve seconds.
He had been in a meeting at the time.
Daniel stared at the number.
He did not recognize it.
He took a screenshot and sent it to Mara.
A few seconds later, her reply appeared.
Do not call it.
He frowned.
Why?
Because if someone is watching, they know you saw it.
Daniel read the message twice.
Then he typed.
How do you know that?
The answer came almost immediately.
Because Dad was not the only person who knew how to hide things.
Daniel stared at the words.
He called her.
She answered on the first ring.
“What did you mean?”
Mara was quiet.
“Where did you learn that?”
“Learn what?”
“That Dad knew how to hide things.”
“I lived with him too.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She sighed.
“Daniel.”
“No.”
His voice was louder than he intended.
“No, you don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Drop something like that and then act like I’m overreacting.”
A long silence followed.
Then Mara said, “I found something before I came to your apartment.”
Daniel sat down again.
“What?”
“After the envelope arrived, I searched Dad’s old things.”
“You searched his things?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the letter scared me.”
He almost laughed.
“Everyone keeps saying that like it explains everything.”
“It explains enough.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Maybe not to you.”
The comment landed.
Mara continued before he could respond.
“After the funeral, I was the one who packed up most of his office.”
Daniel said nothing.
He had avoided that room completely.
Their mother had asked him to help, but he found reasons not to.
He had convinced himself that grief looked different for everyone.
The truth was simpler.
He did not want to touch anything that still belonged to his father.
“I found a notebook,” Mara said.
Daniel’s attention sharpened.
“What kind of notebook?”
“Black cover.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“What was in it?”
“I don’t know.”
He frowned.
“You just said you found it.”
“I found it last week.”
“Last week?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Honest.
That made it worse.
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid you would do exactly what you’re doing now.”
“What?”
“Turn it into a reason to hate him more.”
Daniel looked away.
“That’s not fair.”
“No.”
Mara’s voice softened.
“It isn’t.”
The admission surprised him.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
Daniel rubbed his hand over his face.
The anger was still there.
But underneath it was something more uncomfortable.
The feeling that both of them had been carrying pieces of the same story and had been too afraid to compare them.
“Where is the notebook now?”
“At my house.”
“Can I see it?”
“Yes.”
The answer came so quickly that Daniel knew there was another problem.
“What?”
“What?”
“You hesitated.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Mara was silent.
Then she said, “There are pages missing.”
Daniel looked at the letter.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Because I didn’t count them.”
“Why not?”
“Because the first thing I noticed was that someone had already taken them.”
Daniel stood.
“What?”
“When I found the notebook, the binding was damaged.”
“Maybe it was old.”
“No.”
The certainty in her voice stopped him.
“No, what?”
“I know old things.”
The sentence carried years behind it.
Their father repaired old radios, clocks, furniture, anything people had given up on.
Mara had spent more time beside him than Daniel had.
She had learned his habits.
His methods.
His patience.
“Dad never tore anything by accident,” she said.
Daniel looked at the chair near the window.
A thought moved through him slowly.
May you like
Their father had not just kept secrets.
He had organized them.
