Chapter 2 - My Dead Father Called Me
I ran.
I didn’t run home.
I ran in the opposite direction.
Every parked car suddenly looked occupied.
Every porch shadow looked like a person.
My phone vibrated again.
I almost threw it into the road.
Instead, I answered.
“Who is this?”
For three seconds, nobody spoke.
Then I heard breathing.
A man’s breathing.
“Marcus.”
My knees nearly gave out.
I knew that voice.
I had heard it telling bedtime stories.
Shouting from football sidelines.
Singing badly in the garage.
Whispering, “I’m proud of you,” the morning I started high school.
“Dad?”
The line went silent.
I pressed the phone harder against my ear.
“Dad?”
“Don’t go back to the house.”
My mouth went dry.
“You’re dead.”
A soft laugh came through the speaker.
“Clearly not.”
I stumbled against a mailbox.
“What is happening?”
“You’re finally old enough to hear the truth.”
“Then tell me.”
“Not on the phone.”
“Where are you?”
“Did Elaine throw you out?”
Hearing him use Mom’s name chilled me.
“How do you know that?”
“I know more than you think.”
“You were watching?”
“I was making sure you were safe.”
“Safe from who?”
He paused.
“David.”
I looked back toward our house even though I could no longer see it.
“Who is David?”
“Someone your mother should never have trusted.”
My mind raced.
The photo.
David standing beside Dad.
Mom shielding David.
None of it fit.
“You were with him six months ago.”
Another pause.
“So you got the picture.”
“Did you send it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother has lied to you long enough.”
My chest tightened.
“Mom said you died.”
“She needed you to believe that.”
“Why?”
“Ask her.”
“You’re talking to me right now. You tell me!”
His voice hardened.
“Not everything is mine to confess.”
That sounded like Dad.
That exact tone.
Calm enough to make you feel unreasonable for demanding answers.
I remembered it from arguments before his death.
Mom would ask about money.
He would lower his voice.
She would end up apologizing.
I hadn’t understood it then.
I was fifteen.
“Where are you?”
“There’s a bus station on Mercer Avenue.”
“I know.”
“Locker thirty-seven.”
“What’s inside?”
“The truth.”
The call ended.
“Dad!”
Nothing.
I called back.
Disconnected.
I stood under the streetlight shaking.
Then headlights swept over me.
A dented blue Honda pulled to the curb.
Jordan jumped out.
“Marcus!”
I had texted him without remembering.
He ran toward me.
Jordan had been my best friend since sixth grade. He was shorter than me, louder than me, and incapable of minding his own business.
Tonight, I was grateful for that.
“What happened?” he asked. “You said your mom kicked you out?”
I held up my phone.
“My dad called me.”
Jordan blinked.
“Your dad is dead.”
“I know.”
“That sentence has a problem.”
“I know!”
I showed him the photo.
His joking expression disappeared.
“That’s him?”
“Yes.”
“And the giant guy?”
“David.”
“The guy at your house?”
“Yes.”
Jordan looked toward my neighborhood.
“We should call the police.”
“And tell them what?”
“That your dead father is texting you!”
“They’ll think it’s fake.”
“I think it’s fake.”
“I heard his voice.”
Jordan studied my face.
Then he stopped arguing.
“Okay.”
“There’s something at the bus station.”
“No.”
“Jordan.”
“Absolutely not. That is how every horror movie starts.”
“I’m going.”
“Then I’m going too.”
Twenty minutes later, we walked into the bus station.
It smelled like old coffee and wet coats.
Locker thirty-seven was near the bathrooms.
A small combination lock hung from it.
My phone buzzed.
1015.
Dad’s birthday.
I entered the numbers.
The lock clicked.
Inside was a brown envelope.
My name was written across it.
MARCUS.
I pulled it out.
Jordan stood close beside me.
“Open it.”
Inside were bank statements.
Photographs.
A flash drive.
And a newspaper clipping from two years earlier.
LOCAL CONTRACTOR PRESUMED DEAD AFTER RIVER ACCIDENT.
My father’s name stared back at me.
THOMAS REED.
I remembered that night.
Dad had supposedly driven off a bridge during a storm.
They recovered his truck.
His wallet.
His blood on the broken window.
They never found enough of his body to identify visually.
The funeral home told Mom the remains were too damaged.
Closed casket.
I had never questioned it.
Beneath the newspaper clipping was a document from an insurance company.
Death benefit: $750,000.
Beneficiary: Elaine Reed.
Across the page someone had written:
SHE TOOK THE MONEY.
My stomach twisted.
Jordan read over my shoulder.
“Dude…”
“No.”
I flipped to another document.
A bank transfer.
$300,000 moved three weeks after Dad’s death.
Mom’s signature was at the bottom.
“No.”
I said it louder.
“She wouldn’t.”
Jordan didn’t answer.
There were pictures of Mom meeting David.
One outside a courthouse.
One in a parking garage.
One at a diner.
Then another photo.
David handing Mom an envelope.
On the back someone had written:
PAYMENT.
I felt physically sick.
Maybe Dad was telling the truth.
Maybe Mom had known.
Maybe his death had been staged for money.
Maybe David had helped her.
My phone buzzed again.
Now you understand why she protects him.
I typed immediately.
DID MOM KNOW YOU WERE ALIVE?
The reply came.
Ask her why she collected my life insurance.
I stared at the message.
Then something occurred to me.
If Dad wanted the truth exposed, why hadn’t he gone to the police?
Why hide?
Why contact me instead of Mom?
I typed:
WHY NOT GO TO THE POLICE?
For the first time, he didn’t respond.
Jordan noticed.
“That’s weird.”
“What?”
“He answered everything until you asked that.”
Before I could reply, my phone rang.
Mom.
I rejected it.
She called again.
Rejected.
Then David called from Mom’s phone.
I almost ignored him too.
Jordan grabbed my wrist.
“Answer.”
I did.
“What?”
David’s voice came fast.
“Marcus, where are you?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because Thomas contacted you.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what he wanted.”
“What?”
“Listen carefully. Whatever he sent you, do not trust it.”
“I have bank records.”
“Copies can be altered.”
“Photos.”
“Marcus—”
“My mother collected seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars after Dad died!”
David went silent.
I felt vindicated.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
The word knocked the air out of me.
“You helped her.”
“No.”
“I have pictures of you paying her!”
“That envelope wasn’t money.”
“What was it?”
Another silence.
Then David said something I didn’t expect.
“Evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Your father.”
I laughed bitterly.
“My dead father?”
“Your father was never the victim, Marcus.”
Mom’s voice sounded in the background.
“David, tell him to come home!”
David ignored her.
“You need to get somewhere public.”
“I’m at the bus station.”
David cursed.
“What locker?”
I froze.
“How did you know about the locker?”
“Because Thomas used that trick before.”
Before?
My skin went cold.
“Marcus, look around you.”
I turned slowly.
Passengers.
A janitor.
A tired woman holding a toddler.
Then Jordan grabbed my arm.
“Marcus.”
He pointed toward the glass doors.
A man stood outside across the parking lot.
Gray jacket.
Hands in his pockets.
Even from that distance, I knew him.
My father.
Alive.
Watching me.
I couldn’t move.
May you like
Then Dad smiled.
And lifted one finger to his lips.
