Chapter 9
We drove to Oklahoma before sunrise.
Not because Dad wanted to.
Because I refused to stay behind.
The police were already coordinating with authorities near Broken Bow.
Dana drove.
Dad sat beside me in the back of the SUV, staring out the window for almost the entire trip.
I had never seen him look lost.
“Tell me about the funeral,” I said eventually.
He closed his eyes.
“Emily.”
“I need to know.”
His voice was quiet.
“The accident caused a fire.”
My stomach turned.
“Was Mom identifiable?”
“Not visually.”
“DNA?”
“Yes.”
“Then it was her.”
Dad didn't answer.
“What?”
“The identification was based partly on dental records.”
“Partly?”
“And personal effects.”
“Who handled the DNA?”
“A private lab contracted by the county.”
“Could records be changed?”
His eyes opened.
“With enough access, anything can be changed.”
I looked away.
I wanted my mother alive.
The thought itself felt dangerous.
Because hope could be crueler than grief.
Four hours later, we reached Broken Bow.
Tall trees surrounded the road.
Beautiful country.
The kind of place someone might choose if they wanted to vanish.
Local law enforcement had secured the old cabin.
Marcus and Ryan weren't there.
The cabin was empty.
Dust covered everything.
Dad walked through the rooms like a ghost.
I found marks on a bedroom doorway.
Pencil lines.
Dates.
Heights.
A child's name.
MARCUS - AGE 8.
I touched the faded writing.
“This was their family place before Samuel disappeared.”
Dana nodded.
“Looks that way.”
Then Dad called from another room.
“Emily.”
I found him standing beside a fireplace.
He held a photograph.
My mother.
There was no question.
She stood outside a diner beside Samuel Vale.
The image looked older, faded by sunlight.
On the back, handwritten:
Catherine + Sam, May 14.
No year.
I exhaled.
“Ryan said there was a date.”
“He may have seen another copy.”
Dad studied Mom's face.
She looked maybe thirty-five.
The same age she'd been before she died.
“This could have been taken earlier.”
“Do you recognize her coat?”
Dad froze.
Mom wore a dark red coat.
He sat slowly.
“She bought that coat two weeks before she died.”
“So the picture was before the accident.”
“Yes.”
Relief and disappointment hit me at the same time.
Dad turned the photograph over again.
“Why would Samuel keep this?”
We searched the cabin.
Police found old bills, maps, receipts.
Then I noticed something under a loose floorboard.
A metal box.
Dana stopped me before I touched it.
Investigators photographed everything.
Inside were letters.
Dozens.
Most were written by Samuel.
Some were addressed to Marcus.
Never mailed.
One began:
Son, if you ever find these, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth.
My skin prickled.
The detective read the letter aloud.
“I thought I was protecting you by keeping you ignorant. Catherine tells me that secrets don't protect children. They only leave them unprepared.”
Dad sat heavily.
“That sounds like her.”
The letter continued.
“The people behind Preston are not Jonathan Carter. Jonathan made mistakes, but he is trying to help us.”
My chest tightened.
Marcus had spent years hating the wrong man.
Another paragraph.
“Daniel says he can get me across the border if necessary. I don't trust him, but Catherine does.”
Dad looked up.
“She trusted Daniel.”
The betrayal hit him again.
The detective read on.
“If anything happens to me, look at Red Hollow. That is where the records are.”
Dana frowned.
“Red Hollow Holdings.”
Dad stood.
“It wasn't named after the cabin.”
“What is Red Hollow?” I asked.
Nobody knew.
We searched maps.
No nearby town.
No road.
Then a local sheriff spoke.
“There used to be a quarry called Red Hollow.”
“Where?”
“About thirty miles east.”
Dana was already moving.
Police vehicles headed there first.
We followed.
The quarry had been abandoned for decades.
Trees had swallowed most of the access road.
At the end stood a rusted warehouse.
Authorities entered.
Empty.
But beneath the warehouse they found a locked cellar.
Inside were filing cabinets.
Boxes.
Old computers.
Environmental reports.
Bank transactions.
Enough evidence to expose people who had spent twenty years hiding the Preston contamination.
Then one officer called from the back.
“There's someone here!”
My heart stopped.
Dad grabbed my arm.
Officers rushed forward.
A man sat against the wall behind stacked boxes.
Gray beard.
Thin.
Hands raised.
He looked terrified.
“Don't shoot.”
Dana stared.
Dad whispered, “Samuel?”
The man's eyes locked on him.
“Jonathan Carter.”
I couldn't believe it.
Samuel Vale was alive.
Marcus's father had been hiding for more than a decade.
Dad stepped forward.
“Where is Marcus?”
Samuel's face changed.
“My son?”
“He kidnapped two teenagers.”
Samuel looked like he'd been punched.
“No.”
“He thinks I killed you.”
Samuel closed his eyes.
“Oh God.”
“Where has he been contacting you?”
“He hasn't.”
Dad's anger exploded.
“You let your son believe you were dead?”
Samuel stood.
“I was trying to keep him alive!”
Dad laughed bitterly.
“I've used that excuse too.”
Samuel stared at me.
“You're Catherine's daughter.”
I nodded.
His eyes filled with tears.
“You look like her.”
My throat closed.
“Did you know my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Was her death an accident?”
Samuel looked at Dad.
Then at me.
“No.”
Dad gripped my shoulder.
“Who killed her?”
Samuel's face crumpled.
“I don't know the man's name.”
“But you know something.”
“Yes.”
He walked to an old cabinet.
From behind it he pulled a plastic bag.
Inside was a small digital recorder.
“Catherine gave me this the night before she died.”
Dad's hands shook.
“What is it?”
“She recorded a meeting.”
“With who?”
“Daniel Mitchell.”
Dad's face hardened.
Samuel shook his head.
“Daniel wasn't threatening her.”
“Then who?”
“There was someone else in the room.”
Samuel pressed play.
Static.
Mom's voice.
“You can't bury this forever.”
Daniel responded.
“Catherine, please. Give me forty-eight hours.”
Then another male voice.
Calm.
Older.
“You should listen to him, Mrs. Carter.”
Mom said, “I'm done listening.”
The stranger laughed.
“You have a daughter, don't you?”
Dad made a broken sound.
The recording continued.
Mom's voice became cold.
“Mention my daughter again.”
The man replied.
“You misunderstand. I'm simply saying families are fragile things.”
Then a click.
The recording ended.
Dad whispered, “Who is that?”
Samuel looked at Richard, who had arrived with another police vehicle.
Richard heard the recording.
His face turned white.
“I know.”
Everyone looked at him.
He swallowed.
“That was my father.”
Madison's grandfather.
Arthur Blake.
The former owner of Blake Automotive.
A man who had supposedly died three years ago.
Samuel shook his head.
“No.”
Richard stared at him.
“What?”
“Arthur Blake isn't dead.”
Richard laughed once in disbelief.
“I buried him.”
Samuel's expression was hollow.
“So did Jonathan bury Catherine.”
Nobody moved.
Then Samuel's old landline phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
He stared at it.
“That phone hasn't rung in years.”
Dad picked up.
“Hello?”
A familiar voice came through the speaker.
Marcus.
“Dad?”
Samuel collapsed into the nearest chair.
“Marcus?”
Silence.
Then Marcus began to cry.
“Dad?”
Samuel gripped the phone.
“Son, I'm alive.”
Marcus's breathing broke.
“You left me.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“You left me!”
“Marcus—”
“You let me think they killed you!”
“I know.”
“You let me destroy everything!”
Samuel closed his eyes.
“Where are you?”
Marcus stopped crying.
His voice changed.
Cold again.
“You want to see me?”
“Yes.”
“Then bring Jonathan.”
Dad leaned toward the phone.
“Marcus, Ryan has nothing to do with this.”
“He has everything to do with it.”
“Let him go.”
“No.”
Samuel whispered, “Please.”
Marcus laughed bitterly.
“Now you say please?”
A noise sounded behind him.
Ryan's voice.
“Emily?”
I stepped toward the phone.
“Ryan!”
“I'm okay.”
Marcus pulled him away.
Then said, “Come to Preston.”
Dad frowned.
“You're in Texas?”
“I've been driving while you chased ghosts.”
Samuel stood.
“Marcus, listen to me.”
“No.”
“Arthur Blake is the man you want.”
Silence.
“What?”
Richard stepped closer.
“My father threatened Catherine.”
Marcus laughed.
“Convenient.”
“We have a recording.”
Marcus stopped.
Dad said, “Arthur may still be alive.”
Another long silence.
Then Marcus whispered, “I know.”
Richard's face drained.
“You know?”
“I've known for six months.”
May you like
Marcus laughed softly.
“Who do you think hired me to start all this?”
