Chapter 14 - My Father's First Child
I almost didn't investigate.
That sounds impossible after everything.
But my father's letter had said something important.
Stop digging when the truth is finally enough.
Emily reminded me.
"You don't have to solve every mystery."
"But if Sarah exists—"
"Then this isn't about Richard."
She was right.
This wasn't danger.
It was family.
We started carefully.
Marcus helped us confirm the basics without turning it into a formal investigation.
Sarah Mercer had been born before my parents married.
Her mother was Linda Hayes.
My father had been twenty-one.
Sarah was now forty-six.
Alive.
Living in Oregon.
No criminal records.
No mysterious disappearance.
No conspiracy.
Just a person.
My half-sister.
"Does she know about me?" I asked.
Apparently, yes.
That surprised me more.
A letter arrived before I decided whether to contact her.
Daniel,
I heard Richard's attorney returned the pen.
So I assume you found my name.
My hands trembled.
She knew.
I kept reading.
Your father told me about you when you were born.
Margaret knew about me too.
She asked David not to bring me into your life.
I agreed because I was fifteen and angry and didn't want another family.
Later, I regretted it.
I don't want money.
I don't want the company.
I don't want anything from you.
But if you ever want coffee with an older sister you didn't know you had, I'll buy.
—Sarah
Emily smiled through tears.
"Go."
"You want to come?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you should meet your sister first."
I flew to Portland.
Not for business.
No meetings.
No laptop.
Just one appointment.
Sarah chose a small coffee shop.
I recognized her before she stood.
Same eyes as my father.
Same smile.
She looked at me for a long time.
Then said:
"You have his forehead."
I laughed.
"That's disappointing."
She laughed too.
The tension broke.
We talked for four hours.
She told me my father visited her twice a year.
Not enough.
But consistently.
He paid for college.
Attended her graduation secretly because she didn't want her mother upset.
She knew about me from photographs.
"He loved you," she said.
"I know."
"No. I mean he really loved being your dad."
I looked down.
"Did he ever mention Richard?"
Her face changed.
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"That he'd made a mistake trusting him."
"Anything else?"
"That if something happened, I should stay away from you."
"To protect me?"
"To protect both of us."
We sat quietly.
Then Sarah reached into her bag.
"I have something."
My stomach tightened automatically.
She laughed.
"Relax. Not another murder tape."
I smiled despite myself.
She handed me a photograph.
My father.
Young.
Holding Sarah as a baby.
On the back:
FIRST TIME I UNDERSTOOD WHAT MATTERS.
I swallowed.
"Keep it," she said.
"It's yours."
"No."
"I have copies."
We made plans for her to meet Emily.
And Grace.
Before I left, Sarah asked:
"Is Margaret still alive?"
"Yes."
"Do you hate her?"
"No."
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because hate is expensive."
I thought about that all the flight home.
Sarah visited two months later.
Emily loved her immediately.
Grace grabbed Sarah's necklace and refused to let go.
Sarah said, "Definitely a Mercer."
We built something slowly.
Not pretending we had grown up together.
Not forcing closeness.
Just allowing it.
Mother eventually learned Sarah had contacted me.
She wrote from prison.
I owe her an apology too.
I sent the letter to Sarah.
She read it.
Then put it away.
"Will you answer?"
"Maybe someday."
She had learned the same lesson I had.
Forgiveness wasn't an appointment someone else could schedule.
Grace grew.
The greenhouse flourished.
The old shed became impossible to recognize.
One evening, Emily and I sat inside while Grace slept in a stroller.
"You know what I realized?" Emily asked.
"What?"
"Your family has an unhealthy relationship with hidden compartments."
I laughed.
"No more trunks."
"No more secret basements."
"No more cassette tapes."
"No more mysterious keys."
"Agreed."
She pointed at my pocket.
"And if anyone sends you an antique watch—"
"Straight into the trash."
"Good."
My phone rang.
Marcus.
We both stared at it.
Emily groaned.
"You had to say it."
I answered.
"Please tell me this is dinner."
"It's not."
"Of course."
His voice was serious.
"Richard Calloway was taken to the prison hospital."
"Why?"
"Heart attack."
I felt nothing dramatic.
Just stillness.
"Is he alive?"
"Yes."
"He asked for me?"
"No."
That surprised me.
Marcus continued.
"He asked for Margaret."
My mother.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Will they let her see him?"
"Probably not."
"Then why call me?"
"Because before he lost consciousness, Richard said something to the doctor."
"What?"
Marcus hesitated.
"He said, 'Margaret knows where the last body is.'"
I closed my eyes.
Emily had heard.
"No."
She shook her head.
"No more."
I agreed.
But Marcus said:
"Daniel, there may be an unidentified victim."
That changed things.
This wasn't curiosity.
If someone had died, a family might still be waiting.
I went to see my mother.
She listened to Richard's words.
Then turned gray.
"He's talking about Thomas."
"Thomas Cole?"
"Yes."
"Rachel's ex-husband."
She nodded.
"He's dead?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
Mother closed her eyes.
"Richard killed him nine years ago."
"Why?"
"Thomas wanted out."
"Where is his body?"
"I don't know exactly."
"Richard says you do."
"I know the property."
"Where?"
She looked at me.
"The old Mercer lake house."
I remembered it.
Sold years ago.
Now abandoned during a development dispute.
Police obtained a warrant.
Excavation began.
Three hours later, Marcus called.
They found human remains.
Dental records confirmed Thomas Cole.
Ryan Cole was notified.
Rachel was notified.
Another family finally received an answer.
Richard survived his heart attack.
He was later charged in Thomas's death.
This time, I didn't attend.
I didn't need to.
Sarah called me that evening.
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
I looked through the greenhouse glass at Emily holding Grace.
"Really."
For the first time, it was true.
The next morning, I received another envelope.
No threat.
No hidden compartment.
Just an official court notice.
Richard Calloway had changed his plea regarding my father's murder.
Guilty.
No trial.
No final performance.
No more denial.
But at the bottom of the notice was a handwritten message from his attorney:
Richard has one final request before sentencing.
He wants to tell you where David's wedding ring is.
I stared at the page.
May you like
My father's wedding ring had never been recovered from the crash.
And suddenly I knew exactly what I was going to do.
