“Why did you disown me?”
He looked up.
The question hung between us.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
“Tell me.”
“When you confronted me about the envelope, you said you were going to report what you’d found.”
“I remember.”
“I knew Victor would find out.”
“So you could’ve helped me.”
“I should have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Instead, you told everyone I stole from you.”
Robert nodded.
I gripped the chair.
“You called me a liar.”
“Yes.”
“You said the Navy would never want a woman who couldn’t respect her own father.”
His face twisted.
“I remember.”
“You told Caitlyn I abandoned her.”
He lowered his head.
I felt my throat close.
“That was the cruelest part, Dad. Not losing the house. Not losing the holidays. Losing my little sister because you couldn’t admit you were wrong.”
Robert covered his face.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked toward the window.
Outside, the evening sky had turned deep blue.
Cars moved along the street.
People walked home carrying groceries.
Ordinary lives continued.
I wanted to be one of them.
A woman who could sit across from her father without remembering every word that had broken her heart.
But I wasn’t.
“An apology doesn’t give me fifteen years back,” I said.
“I know.”
“An apology doesn’t bring Andrew Cross back.”
“I know.”
“And it doesn’t explain why Victor tried to use Caitlyn.”
Robert looked suddenly older.
“He told me he could give her a future.”
I stared.
“A future?”
“The kind of career I always wanted for her. He said Helix could introduce her to influential people.”
“And you believed him?”
“I wanted to.”
I shook my head.
“You wanted to believe him because the alternative was admitting what he really was.”
My father closed his eyes.
I pointed toward the key.
“Where does that lead?”
He studied it.
“Your grandfather’s desk.”
I froze.
Grandpa’s old desk had stood in the upstairs study for decades.
A massive oak piece with carved legs and brass handles.
When I was little, he let me sit in the leather chair and pretend I was the President of the United States.
There was a hidden compartment beneath the center drawer.
Grandpa had shown it to me once.
I’d forgotten.
Until now.
“Grandpa’s desk is still at the house?” I asked.
Robert nodded.
“Yes.”
My pulse quickened.
“Has Victor searched it?”
“I don’t know.”
I reached for my phone.
“Then investigators need to.”
The police had secured the Callahan home after Grandma’s rescue.
Detective Morgan coordinated a lawful search of the study based on the evidence and information our family provided.
My father consented to the search of the furniture he controlled.
Grandma, from her hospital bed, confirmed that the desk had belonged to my grandfather and that she wanted its contents turned over.
Two hours later, Detective Morgan called.
“We located a concealed drawer.”
I closed my eyes.
“Was anything inside?”
“A small recording device, several documents, and a sealed letter addressed to you.”
My breath caught.
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
“We haven’t opened it. Your grandmother requested that it be preserved for you once the investigators document it.”
I sat down slowly.
A letter.
From Grandpa.
He’d been dead twenty years.
I couldn’t imagine why he’d left something for me.
Unless Grandma had placed it there later.
“Can I see it?”
“We’ll arrange that after the evidence procedures are completed.”
“Thank you.”
Morgan hesitated.
“Commander, there’s something else.”
I braced myself.
“We’ve identified an audio file on the recording device. It appears to contain a conversation between Victor Sloane and an older man.”
I looked at my father.
He was staring at me.
“Do you know what they said?” I asked.
“The recording needs authentication. But the preliminary review contains a statement that may be important.”
“What statement?”
The detective paused.
“One of the speakers says, ‘Cross was supposed to be frightened, not killed.’”
I felt my stomach drop.
Robert’s face crumpled when I repeated the words.
But Detective Morgan continued.
“The other man responds, ‘Then why was his helicopter tampered with?’”
For a moment, the room became completely silent.
Andrew Cross hadn’t died because of bad luck.
Someone had interfered with his aircraft.
And at least one person knew.
I stared at my father.
“Did you know?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
I wanted to believe him.
But fifteen years of lies had taught me the price of trusting him without evidence.
The next morning, I visited Grandma at the hospital.
She was propped against pillows, sipping apple juice with an expression of quiet dissatisfaction.
“Hospital coffee is a crime against humanity,” she announced.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
“Good morning to you too.”
She opened her arms.
I crossed the room and hugged her.
