Chapter 7: The Report My Father Took to His Grave
I read the first page of the police report three times before the words stopped looking like words.
*Attempted Murder Investigation Report.*
The case number was printed beneath the heading.
So was my father's name.
Michael Carter.
My hands went numb.
For years, everyone had told me my father died in a car accident.
A wet road.
A sharp curve.
One bad night.
That was the story I had grown up with.
I had never questioned it.
Why would I?
My mother had been devastated.
The funeral had been quiet.
The insurance company had settled everything.
The police had called it an accident.
But this report was dated six days before his death.
And someone had tried to kill him.
“Mark?””
Ethan's voice pulled me back.
I quickly lowered the phone.
He was standing a few feet away.
“What is it?””
I forced myself to breathe.
“Nothing you need to worry about.””
He frowned.
“That means it's bad.””
I looked at him.
“You're getting too good at reading me.””
He didn't smile.
“What happened to your dad?””
The question stopped me.
He had been listening.
I sat down at the kitchen table.
“Someone hurt him once.””
“Who?””
“I don't know yet.””
“Did he die?””
I hesitated.
“Yes.””
Ethan lowered his eyes.
“Was it because of me?””
The question broke something in me.
“No.””
I moved closer.
“Absolutely not.””
“But the report is about my family.””
“Ethan, whatever happened before you were born was never your fault.””
He nodded slowly.
Then his eyes moved to the phone.
“What does it say?””
I looked at the report again.
The first page listed the location of the incident.
My father's old office.
The second page listed the date.
September 14.
Eight years ago.
I stared at the date.
It was two days after Ethan was born.
That couldn't be a coincidence.
My father had been at the hospital.
He had met Daniel.
He had discovered something.
Then, two days later, someone tried to kill him.
Six days after that, he died.
I scrolled down.
The report described my father being found unconscious in the parking lot outside his office.
Head injury.
Broken wrist.
Bruising across his ribs.
His car had been tampered with.
The officer had written that witnesses saw a dark SUV leaving the area.
No license plate.
No identification.
Then came a statement from my father.
I stopped breathing.
*Michael Carter stated that the assault was connected to information he had recently obtained concerning the Parker family.*
The Parker family.
Daniel.
Sarah.
Ethan.
My stomach twisted.
I kept reading.
My father had refused to explain what information he had.
He said only that a child was involved.
A child whose identity could “change more than one family.””
I looked at Ethan.
He was drawing circles on a paper towel with a pencil.
Oblivious to how his life had become the center of a mystery eight years old.
I returned to the report.
The investigating officer had asked my father whether he believed Daniel Parker was responsible.
The response was handwritten.
*“No. Daniel has been trying to tell the truth.””*
I froze.
My father had trusted Daniel.
Then why had my father died?
I scrolled farther.
The next page was missing.
I checked again.
Page 3.
Page 4.
Page 5.
Page 6.
Then page 8.
Page 7 was gone.
Someone had removed it.
My phone rang.
Sarah.
I stared at her name.
Then I answered.
“What happened to your father?””
Her opening question made the room feel colder.
I didn't speak.
She continued.
“Mark, listen to me.””
“No.””
“What?””
“You listen to me.””
My voice was shaking now.
“You knew.””
Silence.
“You knew what happened to my father.””
“I knew some things.””
“Some things?””
My laugh came out bitter.
“There’s a police report naming your family.””
“I never hurt your father.””
“I didn't say you did.””
She stopped.
That tiny pause told me she was thinking.
“What did you find?””
I looked at Ethan.
He was watching me now.
“Why was my father investigating Ethan's birth?””
Sarah inhaled sharply.
Then she whispered:
“Where did you get that report?””
“Answer me.””
“Mark, please.””
“Was my father at the hospital when Ethan was born?””
“Yes.””
The answer came immediately this time.
My chest tightened.
“Why?””
“He came because I called him.””
That wasn't what I expected.
“You called my father?””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
“I needed help.””
“With what?””
“With Ethan.””
I closed my eyes.
“Why didn't you ever tell me?””
“Because you would have asked questions.””
“I am asking them now.””
“I know.””
I heard her breathing.
Then she said:
“Your father wanted to help me because he knew something about Daniel.””
“What?””
“He knew Daniel wasn't the father.””
I sat down.
“So the letter was real.””
“What letter?””
“The one you left hidden.””
Silence.
“Sarah.””
She said nothing.
“You lied to me.””
“I was trying to protect Ethan.””
“From what?””
“From the truth.””
I looked at the police report.
“That isn't an answer.””
“It is the only answer I have.””
“No.””
I shook my head.
“You've had eight years.””
Her voice cracked.
“You don't understand what happens when the truth comes out.””
“Then tell me.””
“I can't.””
“You can.””
“I can't!””
Her voice broke.
“I can't do this over the phone.””
“Then come home.””
Another silence.
“I'm afraid.””
I stared at the screen.
“What are you afraid of?””
Then Sarah said something that changed the direction of everything.
“Not Daniel.””
I waited.
“Not you.””
Her breathing became uneven.
“The person I'm afraid of is the person who actually knows who Ethan's father is.””
I looked at Ethan.
“Who?””
Sarah whispered:
“He knows where we live.””
The call ended.
I immediately locked the doors.
All of them.
Front.
Back.
Garage.
I checked every window.
Ethan followed me from room to room.
“Why are you doing that?””
“Because I don't want anyone coming inside.””
“Is someone coming?””
“I don't know.””
That was honest.
It was also terrifying.
I turned off the downstairs lights.
Then I pulled the curtains closed.
Outside, rain ran down the glass.
The streetlights blurred into pale circles.
I thought about the photograph.
Someone watching the house.
The message.
The police report.
My father's assault.
None of it felt random anymore.
I went back to the kitchen and opened the black phone.
There was one app I hadn't checked.
Notes.
I opened it.
At first, nothing looked important.
Shopping lists.
Passwords.
Appointments.
Then I found a locked note.
The title was only a date.
*09/14/18*
My father's assault.
I tapped it.
It asked for a password.
I tried Sarah's birthday.
Wrong.
Ethan's birthday.
Wrong.
My father's birthday.
Wrong.
Then I remembered something.
My father used to tell me that the best passwords weren't names.
They were promises.
I entered the phrase he always wrote inside birthday cards.
*Stay curious.*
The note opened.
My heart stopped.
There was a single paragraph.
**If Mark ever finds this, I need him to understand that Ethan is not the danger. The danger is what people are willing to do to keep his identity hidden. Sarah believes she is protecting him.
Daniel believes he is protecting him. Both are wrong. The truth must be told, but only when Mark is ready to hear who was present the night Ethan was conceived.**
I stared at the final line.
*The person present was someone from Mark's own family.*
I couldn't move.
My own family.
Not just my father.
Someone else.
Someone still alive.
I heard a small sound behind me.
Ethan.
He had stopped in the doorway.
“What's wrong?””
I put the phone face down.
“Nothing.””
He looked at me.
Then he glanced toward the window.
“Mark?””
“Yeah?””
“That's the car.””
My blood went cold.
“What car?””
He pointed through the curtain.
“The black one.””
I moved toward the window.
I lifted the curtain a fraction.
A dark SUV sat across the street with its engine running.
No headlights.
No movement.
Just waiting.
Then the driver's door opened.
A man stepped out.
He looked toward our house.
Then he raised his phone.
A flash lit the rain.
Ethan grabbed my hand.
“Is that him?””
“I don't know.””
The man turned toward the street.
A second figure emerged from the passenger side.
A woman.
Even through the rain and distance, I recognized her.
I knew that face.
I had seen it in family photographs for years.
My mother.
Dead for twenty years.
Except the woman standing across the street was unmistakably her.
And before I could process the impossible, my phone vibrated.
May you like
One new message.
*Open the door, Mark. We need to finish what your father started.*
