Chapter 8 - The Body in the Sealed Coffin
I stared at my mother.
“What does that mean?”
She looked toward the bedroom door.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Avery.”
“Tell me.”
Her hands trembled.
“The night your father supposedly died, I received a phone call.”
“From who?”
“Thomas.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“He called me from a number I didn't recognize.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“What did he say?”
“He told me there had been an explosion at the plant.”
I nodded slowly.
“That matches the official report.”
“But he wasn't at the plant.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“Where was he?”
“He said he was hiding.”
I stared at her.
“Then why did we bury him?”
Mom began crying.
“Because two days later, the company told me his body had been identified.”
I felt sick.
“You knew he was alive.”
“I knew he had been alive after the explosion.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“They said the call could have come from someone impersonating him.”
I shook my head.
“You knew his voice.”
“Yes.”
“And you believed them?”
She looked at me with unbearable sadness.
“I wanted to believe he was still alive.”
I sat down slowly.
For eight years, I had carried the image of my father's coffin.
The folded flag from his volunteer service.
The white roses.
The dirt falling onto polished wood.
Had I buried a stranger?
Or had someone killed him after the explosion?
I looked at Mom.
“Did you ever hear from him again?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
I called Claire back.
She listened carefully.
Then said, “We need to verify the remains.”
My stomach twisted.
“You mean exhume the body?”
“Yes.”
I looked toward Mom.
She closed her eyes.
“Do it,” she whispered.
I told Claire.
She promised to work with investigators and the medical examiner through the proper legal process.
Then she asked something unexpected.
“Avery, does your mother still have the original death certificate?”
“Yes.”
“Send me a photograph.”
I found it in the sewing box.
The document looked ordinary.
Official seal.
Cause of death.
Industrial explosion.
Signature.
DR. HENRY VOSS.
The same man Dominic had recognized at the gate.
I photographed it.
Claire called back minutes later.
“That's not possible.”
My heart sank.
“What?”
“Henry Voss lost his medical license two years before your father's death.”
I stared at the paper.
“Then how did he sign it?”
“That's what we need to find out.”
The next morning, Dominic called.
“I want to show you something.”
I hesitated.
“What?”
“My father's private office.”
“Why?”
“Because I found a hidden cabinet.”
I looked at Mom.
She was sleeping.
Maya sat nearby with a cup of tea.
“I'll come,” I said.
“But Claire comes too.”
“Agreed.”
At noon, we entered the Moretti estate through the front doors.
The same doors wealthy guests had walked through while laughing at me.
The same marble floor where Vanessa had ordered me onto my knees.
A cleaning crew had removed every trace of the cake.
But I remembered exactly where it fell.
Dominic noticed me looking.
His face tightened.
“I should have stopped her.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You should have.”
He didn't argue.
We walked upstairs.
Victor Moretti's private office smelled of leather and old paper.
A portrait of him hung behind a massive desk.
Dominic approached a bookshelf.
He pulled out a thick volume of industrial regulations.
A hidden panel clicked open.
Behind it was a steel cabinet.
Inside were folders, photographs, and several old hard drives.
Dominic handed Claire a document.
She read it.
Then looked at me.
“Avery.”
“What?”
“This is a medical authorization form.”
I took it.
My father's name appeared at the top.
THOMAS CARTER.
Below it was a list of family members.
My mother.
Me.
And a third name.
LILY CARTER.
I stared.
“That's impossible.”
Dominic looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because I don't have a sister.”
Claire examined the form.
The signature at the bottom looked like my father's.
But something was wrong.
The date was six months after his reported death.
I felt the room spin.
Dominic caught my elbow.
I pulled away.
“Don't.”
He stepped back.
I looked at the document again.
Six months after the funeral.
My father's signature.
A child named Lily Carter.
And a medical program run by the same company that supposedly killed him.
Claire took out her phone.
“We need forensic document analysis.”
I barely heard her.
Because beneath the form was another page.
A photograph.
My father.
Older.
Thinner.
Standing beside Lily.
And behind them, reflected in a glass door, was a man wearing a dark security uniform.
Martin Shaw.
I turned the photograph over.
Someone had written a date.
Four years after my father's funeral.
May you like
Then three words.
THOMAS IS ALIVE.
