Chapter 13 - MY FATHER
The hospital address was fake.
The photograph was real.
Andrew identified the room from a private medical facility Harris owned through a holding company.
We found it three hours later.
Abandoned.
One bed.
Medical equipment.
No patient.
But on the bedside table was a cup of black coffee.
Still warm.
Someone had been there minutes earlier.
Then I saw writing on the wall.
One sentence scratched into the paint.
THE WALLS REMEMBER.
I touched it.
My father had been there.
Alive.
Maybe still alive.
Beneath the bed was a folded paper.
My name.
I opened it.
Gracie, if they show you my face, do not trade yourself for me.
I cried before I finished.
I already stole too many years from you.
Do not give them another day.
No signature needed.
He was alive.
Daniel stood behind me.
He didn’t touch me until I reached for his hand.
That was new.
He waited.
I chose.
We found blood near the rear exit.
Not much.
Thomas called a federal contact he still trusted.
For the first time, outside authorities entered the story.
Not local police.
A financial crimes unit.
A federal prosecutor Thomas had worked with years earlier.
Agent Naomi Price arrived with two investigators.
She listened.
Looked at our evidence.
Then said:
“If half of this authenticates, Harris isn’t our only problem.”
“How many?”
“At least a dozen living participants.”
“Can you arrest him?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because a seventy-year-old tape and some forged trusts won’t support everything you’re alleging.”
I slammed my palm against the table.
“He kidnapped my father.”
“If we can prove that, yes.”
I pointed toward the blood.
“Then prove it.”
She didn’t flinch.
“We will.”
Tomorrow’s signing became a controlled operation.
Andrew would enter as Daniel.
Daniel would remain offsite.
I would attend.
Margaret insisted on coming.
“No.”
She looked at me.
“You don’t trust me.”
“No.”
“Fair.”
She reached into her purse.
Then placed a tiny flash drive on the table.
“What’s that?”
“Every private payment I made to Harris for thirty years.”
Daniel looked at her.
“You paid him?”
“To keep certain things buried.”
“Dad?”
“Some.”
“Grace?”
Margaret looked at me.
“Yes.”
I felt anger rise.
“What things?”
“The therapist.”
My stomach turned.
“You paid Dr. Porter.”
“Yes.”
“You helped suppress my memories.”
“Yes.”
Daniel cursed.
Margaret did not defend herself.
“I thought forgetting would protect you.”
“You helped them manipulate a child.”
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
“And I will spend the rest of my life answering for that.”
For once, I believed her.
Not because she had changed.
Because she had stopped asking us to absolve her.
That night I slept for forty minutes.
At 4:12 a.m., my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
Then breathing.
Weak.
“Hello?”
A man whispered.
“Gracie.”
I sat up so fast I nearly fell.
“Dad?”
Daniel woke beside me.
I raised one hand.
“Dad?”
“I’m sorry.”
I began sobbing.
“Where are you?”
“Don’t come.”
“Tell me where you are.”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“You sound like your mother.”
I covered my mouth.
Only he could know how much that sentence would destroy me.
“Are you hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
A weak laugh.
“That too.”
I heard a door.
My father’s breathing changed.
“Listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“Jonathan wants the ledger.”
“We have it.”
“He doesn’t know about the second book.”
I froze.
“What second book?”
“At the house.”
“Hawthorne burned.”
“Not Hawthorne.”
He coughed.
“Your house.”
My house.
Daniel and I looked at each other.
“Where?”
“The place you and Daniel damaged dancing.”
The kitchen island.
The dent.
Our first anniversary.
My father knew about it.
He had been watching.
I cried harder.
“What’s inside?”
“The names.”
“Whose names?”
“Everyone Jonathan owns.”
A sound came through the phone.
Someone entering.
My father whispered quickly.
“Grace.”
“Yes?”
“Your husband made a terrible mistake.”
Daniel flinched.
“But so did I.”
“Don’t waste your life making men earn forgiveness forever.”
My throat closed.
“Dad, please.”
“I love you.”
Then another voice came through.
Jonathan.
“Touching.”
May you like
The line went dead.
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