Chapter 9 - MY FATHER WASN’T DEAD
My father's name was Michael Martin.
At least, that's what I remembered.
My mother rarely spoke about him.
When I asked where he went, she'd always said the same thing.
"Some men aren't meant to be fathers."
I believed her.
Until now.
The investigator called at 3:17 a.m.
"We found him."
I sat upright.
"Where?"
"Michigan."
"Alive?"
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
"Send me the address."
Anna was awake across the room.
"You found him?"
I nodded.
She looked toward the twins.
"What will you do?"
"Go."
"I'll come."
"No."
She frowned.
"You shouldn't go alone."
"This is my family."
"And those are my children."
I looked at her.
She was right.
We left at dawn.
Six hours later, we arrived at a small farmhouse.
An elderly man opened the door.
Gray hair.
Glasses.
I stopped breathing.
He looked at me.
Neither of us spoke.
Then he whispered:
"Robert."
I frowned.
"My name is Martin."
He shook his head.
"That's not what your mother called you."
I felt something inside me break.
"What was my name?"
He stepped aside.
"Come in."
His house was filled with old photographs.
My mother.
Me.
My childhood.
Things I had never seen.
Then I saw one photograph.
My mother standing beside Charles Whitmore.
I stared.
"Why was she with him?"
My father sat down.
"Because she worked for him."
I felt sick.
"What?"
"Your mother wasn't only a housekeeper."
He took a breath.
"She discovered something."
"What?"
"Financial fraud."
Whitmore money was being moved through shell companies.
My mother had found evidence.
"Why didn't she report it?"
"She tried."
"And?"
"Charles threatened you."
I couldn't speak.
"He said if she went to the police, you'd disappear."
My father looked down.
"So she ran."
"But you?"
"I tried to protect you."
"What happened?"
He looked at me.
"Charles framed me."
"For what?"
"Murder."
I stared.
"Whose murder?"
He didn't answer.
Then I understood.
"Daniel's."
My father nodded.
"Daniel wasn't dead."
"Exactly."
"Then whose body?"
"Nobody knows."
I stood.
"Why didn't you come back?"
"Because Charles made me believe you'd be safer without me."
My voice broke.
"You let me think you abandoned me."
"I thought you were alive."
"That isn't an answer."
He looked at me.
"No."
It wasn't.
For the first time in twenty years, I was angry with my father.
Not because he left.
Because he let me spend my entire life believing I wasn't worth staying for.
Then he handed me an envelope.
"Your mother left this for you."
My hands shook.
Inside was a letter.
My son,
If you are reading this, I failed to protect you.
I continued.
But there is something you must know.
Your father didn't abandon us.
I made him leave.
My eyes filled.
The final sentence was underlined.
And Charles Whitmore knows why.
I looked up.
"Why?"
My father stared at me.
"Because you are not who you think you are."
The room seemed to tilt.
"What does that mean?"
He whispered:
"Your mother had another child."
I froze.
"What?"
"Before you."
"A sibling?"
He nodded.
"Your older brother."
"Where is he?"
My father looked toward the window.
"He died."
"How?"
His answer was barely audible.
"Charles Whitmore."
I stood.
"Why?"
My father closed his eyes.
"Because your brother was the real heir."
I couldn't breathe.
Then my phone rang.
Anna.
Her voice was hysterical.
"Martin!"
"What happened?"
"Someone broke into the apartment."
"Are you safe?"
"Yes."
"The twins?"
A pause.
"Both here."
I exhaled.
"Then what's wrong?"
She whispered:
"Someone left a photograph."
"What photograph?"
"My sister."
I frowned.
"Maria?"
"No."
She began crying.
"It's a photograph of my mother."
I froze.
"Your mother?"
"She's been dead for twelve years."
I stared at my father's photograph.
Then I understood.
Someone wasn't just connecting our families.
Someone was connecting our dead.
May you like
And whoever was doing it wanted me to discover the truth.
The question was why.
