Chapter 2 - The Secret Hidden in the Garage
The name on the back of the paper was one I had not seen in years.
Mark Dalton.
My father’s closest friend.
The man who had been standing in the driveway when my son was attacked.
The man who had looked me in the eyes countless times and called Ethan “the grandson I never had.”
I stared at those words until they stopped looking real.
ASK HIM WHAT HAPPENED IN THE GARAGE.
My first thought was that Ethan wrote it.
But that was impossible.
My son was eight years old.
He was scared.
He was hurt.
And according to the doctors, he had been in and out of consciousness after the attack.
He couldn’t have written this.
Not unless he knew something before it happened.
I folded the paper and placed it carefully into my wallet.
Then I sat back down beside Ethan.
For the next hour, I watched him sleep.
I watched his chest rise and fall.
I watched the machines beside him.
Every few minutes, I looked at that piece of paper.
The same question kept repeating in my head.
What happened in the garage?
My father’s house had a detached garage behind the driveway.
I had been there hundreds of times growing up.
It was where my dad fixed old cars.
Where I learned how to change a tire.
Where Ethan used to sit on a small stool and hand Grandpa Ray tools while pretending to be his assistant.
It was a place filled with memories.
Until now.
Now it felt like the location of something I was never supposed to discover.
At 4:30 in the morning, I finally left the hospital room.
I needed answers.
Not from my father.
Not from Mark.
From the place where my son almost died.
When I reached my father’s house, the driveway was empty.
The same driveway where Ethan had been attacked hours earlier.
The same concrete where my son’s blood had been found.
I sat in my car for several minutes.
Part of me wanted to turn around.
Because walking inside meant accepting something I didn’t want to believe.
That my own family had secrets.
That my father might have known more than he admitted.
That someone had hurt my son while people I trusted watched.
But then I remembered Ethan’s voice.
“Grandpa said you weren’t coming.”
I opened the car door.
I walked toward the house.
The front door was unlocked.
That bothered me immediately.
My father was careful.
He locked everything.
Always.
I stepped inside.
“Dad?”
No answer.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
I walked through the hallway.
Pictures covered the walls.
Family vacations.
Birthdays.
Old memories.
I stopped at one photograph.
Ethan was five years old.
Sitting on my father’s shoulders.
Both of them laughing.
My son trusted him.
That was what hurt the most.
Not the attack.
Not the injuries.
The betrayal.
I continued toward the garage.
The door was at the end of the hallway.
I reached for the handle.
Locked.
I frowned.
My father never locked the garage.
Not once.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Then I noticed something.
A fresh scratch around the lock.
Someone had forced it.
I stepped back.
My phone was already in my hand.
I called my father.
He answered after two rings.
“Where are you?”
His voice changed immediately.
He knew.
“I’m at your house.”
Silence.
“Why?”
I looked at the garage door.
“Because Ethan told me to ask what happened in the garage.”
The silence lasted longer this time.
“Who told you that?”
I froze.
Not what happened.
Who told you that?
That was his first question.
“Dad…”
I lowered my voice.
“What are you hiding?”
He exhaled slowly.
“You need to leave.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Listen to me. Get away from the house.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
Then my father whispered:
“Because if they know you found it, they’ll come back.”
My heart started pounding.
“Who are they?”
But he had already hung up.
I stared at the phone.
For years, my father had been the strongest person I knew.
The kind of man who never showed fear.
But now?
He sounded terrified.
I looked at the locked garage.
Someone had hidden something inside.
Something important enough to make my father afraid.
I searched around the door.
Under the window.
Near the side entrance.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a small piece of metal on the ground.
A key.
I picked it up.
It wasn’t old.
It wasn’t rusty.
It had been dropped recently.
I looked at the garage lock.
The key matched.
My hand tightened around it.
I knew I should leave.
Every instinct told me to walk away.
But my son was lying in a hospital bed because of what happened here.
I needed the truth.
I unlocked the door.
The garage opened slowly.
The smell hit me first.
Oil.
Dust.
And something else.
Fear.
I turned on the light.
The garage looked normal.
Tools on the wall.
Old boxes stacked in corners.
My father’s workbench.
Then I saw it.
A chair.
In the middle of the garage.
Not pushed against the wall.
Not stored away.
Placed there.
Like someone had been sitting there.
Watching.
I walked closer.
On the floor beside the chair was a small piece of rope.
My breathing stopped.
I picked it up.
There were marks on it.
Like it had been pulled tight.
I dropped it immediately.
My son hadn’t just been attacked outside.
Something happened inside this garage first.
I searched faster.
Behind boxes.
Inside cabinets.
Under the workbench.
Then I found a hidden compartment beneath a loose wooden panel.
Inside was a small black storage drive.
My hands shook as I picked it up.
There was a label attached.
A date.
The date Ethan was attacked.
I stared at it.
Someone had planned this.
Someone had recorded something.
I grabbed my phone and took pictures.
Then I heard it.
A sound behind me.
A floorboard creaking.
I turned around.
The garage door was still open.
Nobody was there.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
I stepped forward.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
My blood went cold.
The message contained only one sentence.
You should have left your son in the hospital.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
A photo.
My hands went numb.
Because the picture was taken moments earlier.
It showed me standing inside the garage.
May you like
And behind me, reflected in the window…
someone was watching me.
