Chapter 3 - The Promise My Mother Broke
My mother tried to take the letter from my hands.
I moved it away.
“No.”
“Avery, please.”
“Eight years.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Sweetheart—”
“Eight years, Mom.”
My voice cracked.
“I blamed Dad for being careless.”
She covered her mouth.
“I thought he rushed a repair.”
“Avery.”
“I thought he left us because he made one stupid mistake.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“He never made that mistake.”
I looked at the letter again.
“Then why did you let me believe it?”
She sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, she looked so fragile that my anger nearly collapsed.
Then I remembered the sealed coffin.
The company lawyer.
The strange men who attended the funeral but never introduced themselves.
My mother took a long breath.
“Three days after your father's death, a man came to our house.”
“Who?”
“I never learned his name.”
“What did he want?”
“He said the settlement would cover the funeral and keep us from losing the house.”
I remembered the house.
A little two-story place with blue shutters.
We sold it eighteen months later.
Mom continued.
“He brought papers.”
“What kind?”
“A confidentiality agreement.”
I stared.
“You signed it?”
“He said if I refused, the company would challenge your father's benefits.”
“That's illegal.”
“I know that now.”
She wiped her face.
“He knew your school.”
A chill moved down my back.
“What?”
“He knew your tournament schedule.”
I stopped breathing.
“He said accidents happen to children who spend too much time traveling.”
My hands curled into fists.
“And you didn't tell the police?”
“I tried.”
“What happened?”
“The officer I spoke to said I needed evidence.”
She swallowed.
“The next morning, a photograph of you leaving your martial arts studio was pushed under our door.”
I sat beside her.
For years, I had resented her silence.
Now I understood the cost of it.
“Why didn't you tell me when I got older?”
“Because every time I thought about it, I remembered that photograph.”
I took her hand.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
We sat quietly.
Then I asked the question that had been growing in my mind.
“Did Dad ever mention Richard Whitmore?”
She nodded.
“Only once.”
“What did he say?”
“He said Richard was a man who could smile while selling someone else's future.”
I looked at the note.
“And Gabriel?”
“Your father trusted him.”
“Why?”
“Because Gabriel had tried to stop something terrible.”
I waited.
Mom looked toward the window.
“Your father said there had been an accident at the plant before the one that killed him.”
“What accident?”
“A chemical leak.”
I frowned.
“There was never a chemical leak in the news.”
“That was the problem.”
She opened the sewing box again.
This time she removed the bottom lining.
Beneath it lay a small plastic card.
An employee badge.
THOMAS CARTER.
SENIOR SAFETY TECHNICIAN.
MORETTI INDUSTRIAL.
On the back, someone had written four numbers.
0417\.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
I photographed the badge and letter.
Then I called Dominic.
He answered immediately.
“Avery?”
“I found something.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Are you alone?”
“My mother is here.”
“Don't tell me your address over the phone.”
I stiffened.
“Why?”
“Because I think someone is monitoring my communications.”
I looked at Mom.
She was watching me carefully.
“Then how are we supposed to talk?”
“There's a woman named Claire Bennett.”
“Who is she?”
“A former federal investigator.”
“Can I trust her?”
Dominic hesitated.
“I trust her more than anyone in my family.”
“That isn't saying much.”
“No,” he admitted.
“It isn't.”
He gave me the address of a twenty-four-hour diner outside the city.
“Meet her there tomorrow at ten.”
“Why should I?”
“Because she investigated Gabriel's death.”
I gripped the phone.
“And?”
“She never believed it was suicide.”
Before I could respond, a loud noise sounded behind him.
Glass breaking.
Someone shouted.
“Dominic?”
Silence.
Then a man's voice.
Not Dominic's.
“Miss Carter?”
My blood went cold.
“Who is this?”
“You've caused a great deal of trouble tonight.”
I stood.
“What have you done to him?”
The man chuckled.
“Nothing he didn't invite.”
Then he said something that made my knees weaken.
“Your mother has a treatment appointment at six tomorrow morning.”
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
Mom saw my expression.
“What happened?”
I couldn't answer.
The phone rang again.
Unknown number.
I let it ring.
A message appeared.
Bring the compass to the old factory before sunrise.
A second message followed.
Come alone.
Then a photograph arrived.
My mother's dialysis center.
Taken from across the street.
Tonight.
I called the police.
While I gave the dispatcher the details, my mother reached for my arm.
“Avery.”
I covered the phone.
“What?”
She looked toward the front window.
“There's someone outside.”
I turned.
Across the street, a black sedan sat beneath a broken streetlight.
Its headlights were off.
A figure stood beside the driver's door.
Watching our house.
I told the dispatcher.
Then I moved my mother away from the windows.
The figure raised a phone.
My own phone vibrated.
A new message.
May you like
Your father made the same mistake.
He called for help.
