Chương 9
That was something Clara used to joke about.
He could write three pages about an apology but could not say sorry while looking someone in the eye.
She kept reading.
There is something you need to know about the night your mother left.
I let you believe something that was not true.
The room became smaller.
Daniel lowered the paper.
"No."
Clara looked at him.
"No what?"
"No, don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Make this the thing that explains everything."
She frowned.
"You don't even know what it says."
"I know Dad."
The anger in his voice surprised her.
Daniel rarely raised his voice.
"Daniel."
"No."
He put the letter down.
"We spent years trying to understand why she left."
"I know."
"We spent years thinking she just walked away."
"I know."
"And now there's a letter hidden in the house saying maybe he knew something?"
Clara did not answer.
Because that was exactly what the letter said.
Not directly.
Not yet.
But enough.
The second page was missing.
They searched the bedroom for almost an hour.
They moved furniture.
They checked beneath the bed.
They looked through old boxes filled with receipts, photographs, and things neither of them remembered keeping.
The missing page was nowhere.
That should have made Clara feel better.
It did not.
A missing piece of information felt worse than a terrible truth.
Daniel sat on the floor beside a box of their mother's belongings.
"Do you remember this?"
He held up a blue sweater.
Clara looked at it.
"No."
"You hated this sweater."
"I hated everything she wore when I was thirteen."
"Fair."
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Then Daniel unfolded the sweater and found a photograph inside the sleeve.
It showed their mother standing outside the house.
She was younger.
Happy.
Holding a baby Clara.
Their father stood beside her.
But there was something strange.
Someone had cut another person out of the picture.
Not carefully.
Not accidentally.
The paper was torn.
Daniel touched the damaged edge.
"Why would someone do that?"
Clara took the photograph.
She wanted to say she knew.
She wanted to say she had an answer.
Instead, she noticed something written on the back.
A date.
And a name.
A name neither of them recognized.
Daniel read it over her shoulder.
"Who is Michael Reyes?"
Clara felt the same cold feeling she had felt when she saw the handwriting.
Not fear exactly.
Something worse.
Recognition without memory.
Her phone rang.
The number was unknown.
She almost ignored it.
Then she answered.
"Hello?"
There was silence.
"Hello?"
A man's voice finally came through.
"Is this Clara Bennett?"
"Who is this?"
"My name is Michael Reyes."
The photograph slipped slightly in her hand.
Daniel watched her face.
"I think," the man continued, "you found something that belonged to me."
Clara looked at the torn photograph.
Then at the letter.
Then at the empty space where the missing page should have been.
"What did my father have?"
The man took a long breath.
"Your father had proof."
"Proof of what?"
Another silence.
Longer this time.
"That your mother didn't leave because she wanted to."
Clara closed her eyes.
For years she had imagined a thousand explanations.
A thousand reasons.
Her mother had fallen in love with someone else.
Her mother had become tired of them.
Her mother had chosen a different life.
The possibilities had hurt.
But this was different.
This opened a door she had spent years trying to lock.
Daniel reached for the phone.
Clara moved it away.
"Where are you?"
Michael answered slowly.
"I don't think meeting me is a good idea."
"That wasn't my question."
"No."
His voice softened.
"That's exactly why I think you should know."
The call ended.
Clara stood in the middle of the kitchen holding a dead phone.
Daniel looked at her.
"Tell me we are not about to chase a stranger because of a letter from Dad."
She looked at the old house around them.
At the cracks in the walls.
At the things her father had left behind.
At the secrets he had apparently taken with him.
"I don't know what we're doing."
Daniel nodded.
That answer seemed to bother him less than a lie would have.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Yeah."
He picked up the photograph.
"Because the last time this family thought it knew what was happening, we were wrong."
The next morning, Clara drove to the address Michael Reyes had given her.
She almost turned around three times.
Once at the first traffic light.
Once when she passed the exit.
Once when she saw the small office building where he worked.
But she kept going.
Not because she trusted him.
Not because she trusted her father.
Because after twelve years of living with an unanswered question, she finally understood something she wished she had learned earlier.
Sometimes the truth did not arrive to heal a wound.
Sometimes it arrived to show you how deep the wound had always been.
The small office smelled like printer paper and old carpet, the kind of place where people came to argue about bills, fill out forms, and hope someone behind a desk could fix what had already gone wrong.
Clara sat in the waiting area for seven minutes before Michael Reyes appeared from a hallway carrying a file folder pressed against his chest.
He was older than she expected.
Not old.
Just tired.
His hair was gray at the sides, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up unevenly as if he had forgotten halfway through that he was supposed to look professional.
"You came," he said.
Clara stood.
"You called me."
Michael glanced toward the receptionist, who was pretending not to listen.
"I did."
"Then why do you sound surprised?"
He looked down at the folder.
"Because most people don't want answers when answers are inconvenient."
Daniel stepped forward beside her.
"Most people also don't leave mysterious phone calls about dead relatives."
Michael looked at him.
"You must be Daniel."
May you like
Daniel's expression tightened.
"How do you know that?"
