Chapter 10 - The Truth About My Father
For twenty-nine years, I had believed my father was working when Mercy House burned.
That was what he'd told us.
That was what my mother repeated.
I remembered him coming home after midnight, his shirt smelling of smoke, his knuckles scraped, his eyes bloodshot.
He said a tractor had caught fire.
I never questioned it.
Now Helen Mercer was telling me he'd been involved in moving children out of the shelter.
I couldn't decide whether to feel grateful or afraid.
"Did he know what was happening?" I asked.
Helen answered carefully.
"I believe he understood enough to help."
"Help whom?"
"The children your mother was trying to protect."
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
"Why didn't either of them tell me?"
"Because the people behind the operation knew you had seen something."
"The blue book."
"Yes."
I looked at the notebook.
"Did my father take the children somewhere safe?"
Helen hesitated.
"Some of them."
My heartbeat quickened.
"What does that mean?"
"There were two vehicles."
I sat perfectly still.
"Your father drove the first. Thomas Cole helped load four children into it."
"And the second?"
Helen's voice turned quiet.
"That vehicle belonged to Raymond Voss's company."
I closed my eyes.
"How many children?"
"I don't know."
"Where did they go?"
"We never found out."
Silence filled the room.
Then I asked the question that had been building inside me.
"Helen, why didn't you tell me any of this?"
She exhaled.
"Because I thought the case was over."
"People died."
"I know."
"Children disappeared."
"I know."
"My mother carried these secrets until her death."
"I know, Amara."
Her voice cracked.
"And I have regretted my silence for years."
I wanted to be angry.
I was angry.
But I also understood what I was hearing.
Helen hadn't simply forgotten.
She had been frightened.
Maybe threatened.
And had chosen silence.
The same choice that protected powerful men for decades.
"I need everything you remember documented," I said.
"I'll cooperate fully."
"And Helen?"
"Yes?"
"You should notify the proper authorities about your involvement."
"I already have."
I ended the call.
For a long time, I sat without moving.
My father had died seven years earlier.
A quiet man.
He loved fishing, old country music, and peach cobbler.
He never spoke about Mercy House.
Now I wondered whether the weight of that secret had followed him every day of his life.
Naomi arrived shortly after midnight.
She carried a folder.
"We found Evelyn."
I stood so quickly that my chair scraped the floor.
"Alive?"
"Yes."
Relief hit me hard enough to make me dizzy.
"Where?"
"An abandoned motel outside Briar County."
"Is she safe?"
"She's being treated for a minor gunshot wound."
I closed my eyes.
"Thank God."
Naomi held up a hand.
"There's more."
I waited.
"She gave us documents."
"What kind?"
"Transportation records. Payment histories. Copies of false identity files."
"And the children?"
"Several locations are being investigated right now."
I sat down.
"Did she name the Director?"
Naomi's expression became unreadable.
"She did."
My heart pounded.
"Who?"
"Daniel Rourke."
I frowned.
"Evelyn told me he wasn't the Director."
"She says there was more than one person using that title."
I stared at her.
"Explain."
"According to Evelyn, Franklin Rourke organized the original financial network."
"And Daniel inherited it?"
"After Franklin died."
"Where does Voss fit?"
"Enforcement. Intimidation. Custody transfers."
I looked at the ceiling.
"And Raymond?"
"Transportation."
The entire operation began to form in my mind.
A corrupt judge.
A transportation company.
A sheriff willing to silence complaints.
And a network of private facilities that could move vulnerable children without attracting attention.
But Naomi wasn't finished.
"There's something about your arrest."
I looked up.
"What?"
"We recovered a text message from Voss's phone."
"From Daniel?"
"Yes."
She placed the message in front of me.
It had been sent thirty-eight minutes before I entered the diner.
SHE'S IN TOWN. DENIM JACKET. ALONE. MAKE SURE SHE DOESN'T REACH THE OLD PROPERTY.
I stared.
Voss had known.
Not necessarily that I was a judge.
But that I was the woman Daniel wanted stopped.
Naomi turned the page.
Another message.
Sent six minutes before my arrest.
YOU CAN HOLD HER. DON'T HURT HER. SHE'S WORTH MORE ALIVE.
I felt my stomach twist.
"More alive?"
Naomi nodded.
"We're investigating what he meant."
Then she showed me Voss's reply.
SHE'S JUST SOME WOMAN. I'LL HANDLE IT.
I stared at those words.
There it was.
The fatal arrogance.
Daniel had wanted me detained.
Voss had believed I was powerless.
Neither had understood how quickly an unlawful arrest could expose an entire operation.
But the final message was worse.
It had been sent after my credentials were discovered.
From Daniel Rourke to Voss.
YOU FOOL. THAT'S THE ONLY PERSON WHO CAN IDENTIFY THE DIRECTOR FROM 1997.
I looked at Naomi.
"Franklin Rourke died fifteen years ago."
"Yes."
"Then who is Daniel afraid I'll identify?"
Naomi slowly closed the folder.
"That's what we need to find out."
I stared at her.
And suddenly, the initials from the blue book returned.
F. R. V.
Three letters.
Three surnames?
Franklin.
Raymond.
Voss.
Then I remembered something else.
The Director had worn a blue ring.
A large oval stone set in silver.
And the person wearing that ring had spoken to me through the fence the night before the fire.
I had forgotten his face.
But I remembered his voice.
And I had heard it again.
May you like
Just that morning.
In a telephone call from the man who claimed to be protecting me.
