Chapter 7 - My Father’s Sealed Letter
Michael Reeves had been at every major event of my childhood.
Birthdays.
Graduation.
My wedding.
He had stood beside Dad in photographs for thirty years.
I called Dad.
“Come over.”
He heard something in my voice and didn't ask why.
When he arrived, I showed him the guest list.
“Michael?”
Dad frowned.
“What about him?”
Margaret stepped into the room.
Dad recognized her surname.
The color left his face.
“Robert,” she said, “I think Michael Reeves was Linda's first child.”
Dad sat down.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Michael introduced me to Linda.”
Silence.
My heart thudded.
“What?”
Dad stared at the floor.
“I met your mother at Michael's birthday party.”
“When?”
“1982.”
Two years after Charles vanished.
“Did Michael know her?”
“He said they had met once.”
Margaret asked:
“How old is he?”
“Forty-six.”
The age fit.
I called Michael.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
Dad stood.
“I'm going to his house.”
We went together.
Michael's house was empty.
On the porch sat a package addressed to me.
Inside was a sealed letter.
Emily,
If your mother used the name Charles, then she finally remembered enough to become dangerous to herself.
Don't blame her until you know what happened.
I am the child she was told died.
Charles found me.
He never abandoned her.
And your father knows more than he realizes.
Dad read it over my shoulder.
“What does that mean?”
There was another page.
Michael described being adopted by the Reeves family.
At eighteen, Charles found him.
He told Michael about Linda but begged him not to approach her yet because Thomas Vale was still alive and unstable.
Charles promised to return.
He never did.
Years later, Michael found Linda himself.
But she didn't recognize him.
Instead, he befriended Dad.
He stayed close.
Waiting.
“Why didn't he tell her?” I asked.
Dad was crying.
“Maybe he was afraid.”
At the bottom was one final instruction.
The rest is in the safe-deposit box Charles opened in 1992.
Dad stared at the number.
“I know that bank.”
We drove there.
The box had been dormant for decades.
Access required documentation.
But there was a registered co-owner.
Linda Bennett.
My mother.
We called her.
No answer.
Then Dad received a voicemail.
From Michael.
His voice was shaky.
“Robert, I'm sorry. Linda found me. She's remembered where the key is. Don't let her open that box alone.”
The message had been left eleven minutes earlier.
We drove to Mom's house.
Her car was gone.
On the kitchen table sat the embroidered blanket.
Underneath it was an old brass key.
And beside it, a note:
I have to find out whether my brother ever forgave me.
Dad looked at the bank address.
It was twenty minutes away.
Then my phone rang.
The bank manager.
“Mrs. Carter?”
“Yes?”
“Your mother is here.”
I grabbed my coat.
May you like
Then he added:
“And she isn't alone.”
