PART 4
My mother sat down.
Ray remained standing.
Neither of them looked at me.
I waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Twenty.
Finally, Mom whispered:
“Your father came to the house that night.”
“What night?”
“The night he left.”
“You said he left.”
“He did.”
“You just said he wasn’t supposed to survive.”
She closed her eyes.
“I know.”
I felt my hands tightening into fists.
“What happened?”
Mom looked at Ray.
Ray nodded.
And that was when she began.
“You were three years old.”
“I remember.”
“No,” she said softly. “You remember pieces.”
I frowned.
“What pieces?”
“The blue blanket.”
My heart skipped.
I did remember that.
A blue blanket with little yellow stars.
“You used to sleep with it every night.”
“I remember.”
“Your father came to the house around midnight.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to see you.”
“Did he come inside?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wouldn’t let him.”
I stared at her.
“You wouldn’t let him see me?”
She started crying.
“I was angry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I know.”
“What happened next?”
She wiped her face.
“He told me he was leaving town.”
“Why?”
“He said he couldn’t keep fighting with me.”
I looked at Ray.
“Where was he?”
“Outside,” Ray said.
“You were there?”
“No.”
Mom answered.
“I was alone with you.”
She took a breath.
“Your father asked me to bring you outside.”
“And?”
“I refused.”
“Then what?”
“He said he had something for you.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
She pointed toward the folder.
“One of the photographs you saw.”
I remembered it.
Me at four.
Except I had been three.
My father had taken the picture before he left.
“He said he wanted you to have it someday.”
“And you kept it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood.
“You keep saying that.”
“I was scared.”
“Of him?”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“Of myself.”
I didn’t understand.
She continued.
“I had convinced myself that your father didn’t love you.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
The answer came instantly.
Too instantly.
“Yes,” she repeated.
“He did.”
My throat tightened.
“Then why did you tell me he didn’t care?”
“Because I wanted you to stop asking about him.”
I stared at her.
She looked down.
“I wanted to erase him.”
“You can’t erase somebody’s father.”
“I know that now.”
“Apparently not then.”
She nodded.
“I was wrong.”
“What happened that night?”
Mom took a deep breath.
“Your father left.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
She looked at Ray.
“He called me from the road.”
“Why?”
“He said someone was following him.”
I felt a chill.
“Who?”
“He didn’t know.”
“What did he say?”
“He said a black SUV had been behind him for several miles.”
Ray finally spoke.
“He called me the next morning.”
I turned toward him.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your mother was asleep.”
“And?”
“He asked me to keep you safe.”
I stared at him.
“You knew him before you married Mom?”
“A little.”
“How?”
“We worked in the same place.”
I remembered what Dad had said.
His former boss.
There it was again.
Everything was connected.
“You knew my father.”
Ray nodded.
“Not well.”
“But enough for him to trust you?”
“I guess.”
“What did he tell you?”
Ray sat down.
“He said he was leaving town because he was afraid someone was trying to hurt him.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t know.”
“Did you believe him?”
“At the time?”
Ray shook his head.
“I thought he was angry and paranoid.”
“And now?”
Ray looked at me.
“Now I don’t know.”
My mother stood.
“I do.”
We both looked at her.
She walked to the cabinet.
Pulled out another box.
This one was older.
Dusty.
She put it on the table.
“I should have destroyed this.”
“What’s inside?”
“Proof.”
“Proof of what?”
She opened the box.
There was a newspaper clipping.
An old photograph.
And a police report.
I picked up the newspaper clipping.
The headline made my stomach turn.
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MISSING AFTER HIGHWAY INCIDENT
I looked at the date.
Three days after my father disappeared.
“Your father was reported missing?”
“Yes.”
“But he came back years later.”
Mom shook her head.
“No.”
“What?”
“He wasn’t missing.”
I stared at her.
“He was hiding.”
“From who?”
She pointed to the police report.
I read the first page.
Most of it was blacked out.
Names.
Addresses.
Phone numbers.
Almost everything.
But one line was visible.
Witness reported a black SUV following the vehicle.
My heart started pounding.
“The SUV.”
Mom nodded.
“What happened?”
“Your father drove off the road.”
“Was he hurt?”
“Badly.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he disappeared before the police could find him.”
I stared at her.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It didn’t.”
“Where was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how did you know he was alive?”
Mom looked at Ray.
Ray looked away.
I felt sick.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Mom whispered:
“Your father called me.”
“When?”
“Six years later.”
My mouth went dry.
“He called you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He said he was alive.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You were nine.”
“You should’ve.”
“I know.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked about you.”
“What did you tell him?”
She started crying again.
“I told him you were happy.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I told him you had a father.”
I stared at her.
Ray’s face tightened.
“You told him about me?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He thanked me.”
“For what?”
“For taking care of you.”
Silence.
Then Mom said:
“He asked if he could come back.”
My heart stopped.
“What did you say?”
She looked at me.
“I told him no.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“Afraid of what?”
She didn’t answer.
Ray did.
“She was afraid you’d leave her.”
I looked at him.
“And you knew?”
“I knew she was scared.”
“Did you know she was stopping him from seeing me?”
Ray hesitated.
“Not at first.”
“When did you find out?”
“After we got married.”
“And you still stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at me.
“Because by then I loved both of you.”
I sat down.
My entire childhood suddenly felt like a room with hidden doors.
Every memory had another version.
Every explanation had another explanation.
Then I noticed something.
The photograph.
The one my father had sent.
I picked it up.
On the back was a date.
I turned it over.
There was writing.
Not my father’s.
Someone else’s.
He knows.
I looked at Mom.
“Who wrote this?”
She went pale.
“I don’t know.”
“Mom.”
“I don’t.”
I showed it to Ray.
He stared at it.
Then he whispered:
“I’ve seen that handwriting.”
My heart stopped.
“Where?”
He didn’t answer.
“Ray.”
He stood.
“Give me the photograph.”
“No.”
“Jake.”
“Where have you seen it?”
He looked toward the window.
“On your father’s letters.”
I felt the room tilt.
“What?”
“Some of the letters had notes on them.”
“What notes?”
“Warnings.”
“From who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how did you see them?”
“Your mother showed me one.”
Mom looked down.
I turned toward her.
“You knew?”
“I knew someone was sending warnings.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought it was over.”
“What was over?”
“The danger.”
I laughed.
“Apparently not.”
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out.
Unknown number.
One message.
Stop asking questions about your father.
I showed Ray.
His face changed immediately.
“Don’t reply.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
The phone buzzed again.
Another message.
You were supposed to stay out of this.
I stared at the screen.
“What does that mean?”
Ray grabbed his phone.
“I’m calling your father.”
He dialed.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then Ray’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man’s voice.
“Ray.”
Ray froze.
I could hear only one side of the conversation.
“Who is this?”
The voice said something.
Ray’s face drained of color.
“No.”
The caller spoke again.
Ray looked at me.
“Where are you?”
Silence.
Then:
“Don’t come here.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
Ray didn’t answer.
“Ray.”
He looked at Mom.
Then at me.
“Your father has been found.”
I stood.
“Where?”
“He’s at the hospital.”
My stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
Ray grabbed his jacket.
“He was attacked.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“Is he alive?”
Ray nodded.
“For now.”
I grabbed my shoes.
“We’re going.”
Ray stopped me.
“No.”
“What?”
“You stay here.”
“I’m going.”
“Jake—”
“He’s my father.”
Ray looked at me.
“I know.”
“Then I’m going.”
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
The hospital was forty minutes away.
Nobody spoke during the drive.
Mom sat in the back.
I sat beside Ray.
His hands were tight around the steering wheel.
Finally, I asked:
“What did the caller say?”
Ray didn’t answer.
“Please.”
“He said your father had something for you.”
“What?”
“He didn’t say.”
We reached the hospital.
A police officer met us at the entrance.
“Family?”
I said:
“I’m his son.”
The officer looked at me.
Then at Ray.
“Only one visitor.”
“I’ll go,” Ray said.
“No.”
I stepped forward.
“I’m going.”
The officer nodded.
“Room 317.”
I walked down the hallway alone.
My father’s door was closed.
I stood outside for a moment.
Then knocked.
“Come in.”
I opened the door.
He looked completely different.
Bruises across his face.
Bandage around his head.
One arm in a sling.
But his eyes were open.
He looked at me.
“Jake.”
I walked closer.
“Who did this?”
He looked toward the door.
“Close it.”
I did.
“Who attacked you?”
He shook his head.
“That’s not important.”
“It is to me.”
“No.”
He reached toward the bedside table.
There was an envelope.
He handed it to me.
“This is why I came back.”
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Not of me.
Not of Mom.
It was a photograph of Ray.
My stomach dropped.
“When was this taken?”
My father looked at me.
“Before I ever met your mother.”
I stared at the photograph.
Ray was younger.
Standing beside another man.
The other man was holding a folder.
I recognized him.
I had seen him before.
In the newspaper clipping.
My father’s former boss.
“What is this?”
My father whispered:
“That’s the man who wanted me gone.”
“Why?”
“Because I found out what he was doing.”
“What was he doing?”
My father looked toward the door.
“Money.”
“What kind?”
“Money that wasn’t supposed to exist.”
I stared at him.
“What does that have to do with Ray?”
“Everything.”
My heart began pounding.
“My father continued:
“Ray didn’t know.”
“Then why is he in the photograph?”
“Because he worked for him.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“You’re saying Ray worked for the man who tried to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“But Ray protected me.”
“I know.”
“You trusted him.”
“I did.”
“Then why are you warning me?”
My father looked at me.
“Because the man who hurt me isn’t dead.”
I froze.
“He’s still alive.”
“Who?”
My father looked toward the hallway.
Then whispered:
“Your stepfather’s old boss.”
I stepped backward.
“No.”
“Jake—”
“No.”
Ray couldn’t be involved.
He couldn’t.
Not Ray.
The man who stayed up with me doing chemistry.
The man who saved money for my college.
The man who bought cheap boots because mine needed replacing.
The man who told me I was his kid.
I shook my head.
“You’re lying.”
My father looked hurt.
“I wish I was.”
The door suddenly opened.
Ray stood there.
His face was pale.
He looked at my father.
Then at me.
Nobody spoke.
Finally, Ray said:
“Jake…”
My father reached for the nurse’s call button.
Ray stepped into the room.
“Don’t.”
My father stopped.
Ray looked at him.
“You shouldn’t have told him.”
I stared at Ray.
“What shouldn’t he have told me?”
Ray closed his eyes.
Then opened them.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
My heart sank.
“Find out what?”
Ray looked at me.
And the words that came next changed everything.
“I knew who your father was hiding from.”
I couldn’t speak.
Ray continued.
“And I knew why.”
I looked at the photograph in my hand.
“Then tell me.”
He stared at the floor.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if I tell you…”
He looked at the hospital door.
“…they’ll come for you next.”
My father whispered:
“They already know about him.”
I turned.
“What?”
My father looked at me.
“They’ve known about Jake for years.”
Ray’s face changed.
Then the lights in the hospital hallway suddenly went out.
Everything went black.
And somewhere outside the room…
a door slammed.
Then another.
Footsteps began moving toward us.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Ray grabbed my arm.
“Stay behind me.”
I heard my father’s voice.
“Ray…”
“What?”
“It’s too late.”
The footsteps stopped directly outside the door.
Someone tried the handle.
Once.
Twice.
Ray stepped between me and the door.
The handle began turning.
And then a voice came from the other side.
A voice I had heard before.
A voice that made Ray go completely still.
“Open the door.”
I looked at Ray.
He whispered one word.
“Run.”
And then the door opened….
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