I didn't sleep that night.
A child's fingerprint.
Mine?
I kept thinking about the toolbox.
If my fingerprint was inside it, then I might have touched the wrench myself.
Maybe the memory of my mother holding it was wrong.
Maybe I had picked it up.
Maybe I had moved something.
Maybe the accident had been exactly what my mother always claimed: a terrible childhood mistake.
At breakfast, I asked Dad.
“Could the fingerprint be mine?”
“Yes.”
“Would they know?”
“They can compare it.”
“What if it is?”
He looked at me.
“Then it doesn't prove you caused anything.”
“I was four.”
“I know.”
“Could I have loosened the railing?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the damage required force.”
I looked down.
“Then why was my fingerprint there?”
“We'll find out.”
That was Dad's answer to almost everything.
We'll find out.
I was beginning to appreciate it.
At nine, Elena arrived with Detective Harris.
They had the fingerprint results.
“It is yours,” Harris said.
I stared at him.
“How?”
“We don't know.”
I felt sick.
“I told you I remembered the toolbox.”
“You did.”
“Maybe I touched it.”
“You probably did.”
“But why?”
Harris placed the old photograph on the table.
“Look at the dock.”
I did.
“Do you see the toolbox?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Under the bench.”
“Your grandmother kept tools there.”
I nodded.
“Do you remember playing with them?”
A faint memory surfaced.
A screwdriver.
A small hammer.
I nodded.
“You probably touched the box before the accident.”
“So it doesn't mean anything.”
“It means your fingerprint was there.”
He was careful.
It could support my memory.
It could also be completely innocent.
Then he showed me another photograph.
A close-up of the bolts.
“The damage pattern is inconsistent with a child.”
I felt relieved.
Then he showed me the underside of the dock.
“There was something hidden here.”
He pointed to a narrow wooden panel.
“What is that?”
“A compartment.”
I looked at Dad.
“Another one?”
“Yes.”
Investigators had found a metal container beneath the dock.
Inside were receipts, old photographs, and a small cassette tape.
My grandmother had recorded conversations.
“Does it work?”
“Yes.”
My heart raced.
“What does it contain?”
“Three recordings.”
“Of what?”
“We're still reviewing them.”
“Can I hear them?”
Harris looked at Elena.
“Not yet.”
I understood.
But I hated waiting.
That afternoon, my mother requested another meeting.
I almost refused.
Then I remembered her words.
Ask your father what happened at Lake Mercer.
I wanted to ask her too.
She sat behind the glass.
This time, she looked frightened.
“Did you know about the tape?” I asked.
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
“You knew about the dock compartment?”
“No.”
“Then why are you scared?”
She stared at me.
“Because I know what your grandmother was capable of.”
“What does that mean?”
“She investigated everything.”
“She thought you loosened the railing.”
Mom closed her eyes.
“She thought everyone was guilty.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“Did Daniel?”
“I don't know.”
“Did Dad?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
She looked at me.
“I think the railing was already damaged.”
“Before you touched it?”
“Yes.”
“Why were you holding the wrench?”
“I was trying to repair it.”
“Why didn't you tell anyone?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
She whispered:
“That someone wanted you dead.”
I couldn't move.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“You said Daniel.”
“I suspected him.”
“But he saved me.”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“Because people can do terrible things and still save someone afterward.”
I stared at her.
That sounded like something she had been carrying for years.
“Did you loosen the railing?”
“No.”
“Did you move the toolbox?”
“No.”
“Then why did Daniel say he saw you?”
“Because he was angry.”
She looked down.
“Or because he wanted you to think he knew something.”
“What?”
She shook her head.
“I can't tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because if I'm wrong, I destroy someone's life.”
“And if you're right?”
She looked directly at me.
“Then we're all in danger.”
The meeting ended.
I walked back to Sarah's house with that sentence repeating in my head.
That evening, Detective Harris played the first tape for Dad and Elena.
I was allowed to listen.
My grandmother's voice filled the room.
“Tell me again what you saw.”
A teenage Daniel answered.
“I saw Valerie near the railing.”
“What was she doing?”
“Fixing it.”
“Did you see her loosen anything?”
“No.”
My grandmother was silent.
Then:
“Did you see anyone else?”
Daniel hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
The tape crackled.
Then Daniel said a name.
Not Mom.
Not Dad.
Not himself.
Someone I had never heard before.
Harris stopped the recording.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“We're trying to determine that.”
Dad looked stunned.
“Where did Daniel know him from?”
“We don't know.”
“Play it again.”
The tape continued.
Daniel said the name once more.
Then my grandmother asked:
“Why was he at the house?”
Daniel answered:
“He came with Valerie.”
My mother.
I felt cold.
“Who?”
Harris paused.
“The name sounds like Robert.”
Dad looked at him.
“My father's name was Robert.”
I stared.
“Grandpa?”
Dad shook his head.
“My father was Robert Reed.”
“Daniel's father.”
“Yes.”
“But Grandma knew him.”
“Yes.”
The tape continued.
Grandma asked Daniel whether Robert had spoken to Valerie.
Daniel said yes.
“What did they discuss?”
“I don't know.”
“Did they argue?”
“Yes.”
“About Maya?”
“Yes.”
The tape ended.
I looked at Dad.
“My grandfather was there?”
He nodded slowly.
“But he was supposed to be out of state.”
“I thought he was.”
Harris placed another document on the table.
A hotel receipt.
Robert Reed had checked into a hotel twenty miles from Lake Mercer the night before the accident.
He had checked out that afternoon.
“Why didn't anyone tell us?”
“Because the hotel record wasn't found until now.”
I stared at the receipt.
“What did he want?”
“We don't know.”
Dad's hands tightened.
“My father and I hadn't spoken in months.”
“Why?”
“Because of the inheritance dispute.”
“The property?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the lake house photograph.
Grandma had left the property to me.
Daniel wanted it.
Dad was the primary beneficiary of much of her estate.
And Robert, Daniel's biological father, had been there the day I nearly drowned.
I suddenly understood why my grandmother's letter had named three people but never Robert.
Maybe she knew there were more.
That night, investigators found a second recording.
This one began with my mother's voice.
“Robert, I can't do this.”
A man's voice answered.
“You already agreed.”
“I didn't agree to hurt her.”
“You agreed to leave.”
“She's my daughter.”
“And the property is worth millions.”
I stopped breathing.
Dad stared at the speaker.
The recording continued.
“I'll take her away.”
“Good.”
“And the money?”
“Transfer it before you go.”
Mom's voice trembled.
“Daniel said the money was enough.”
“Daniel doesn't know what he's doing.”
The recording ended.
Nobody spoke.
I looked at Elena.
“Was that my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Was the man my grandfather?”
“We're verifying the voice.”
Dad stood.
“My father died seven years ago.”
The room went silent.
I looked at him.
“What?”
“My father died seven years ago.”
Harris looked at the recording.
“Then that voice isn't Robert.”
Dad stared at him.
“Who is it?”
Harris didn't answer.
The tape had been recorded recently.
The date stamp on the digital conversion was wrong, but the physical tape had a manufacturer mark that investigators believed placed it within the last few years.
Dad's face went pale.
“My father can't be alive.”
Elena looked at him.
“We're not saying he is.”
Then Harris placed a photograph beside the tape.
A man.
Older.
Gray hair.
Standing outside a marina.
I didn't recognize him.
Dad did.
He whispered one word.
“Robert.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: The Man Everyone Believed Had Been Dead Was Suddenly Visible in Recent Records, and My Mother’s Fear Began to Make a Terrifying Kind of Sense
Six Days Into My Mother’s Vacation, the Neighbor Looked Through the Window and Realized the Child Inside Had Been Living Alone
Part 10 of 20
