Chapter 11 - THE LETTER DANIEL NEVER WROTE
Daniel read the letter three times.
Then he handed it to me.
Emma deserves a life without this hanging over her.
Stop searching.
Do not contact her again on my behalf.
Tell her nothing.
Daniel Mercer.
I looked at him.
“Did you write it?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
Greene had emailed the scanned document.
Daniel pointed toward the signature.
“That looks like mine.”
Dad leaned closer.
“It is very close.”
“But?”
Daniel pointed to the date.
“I was in Arizona that month.”
“So?”
“I wasn’t using Daniel Mercer.”
Witness protection.
Of course.
Every official document during that period would have used his protected identity.
“Would you have signed your old name on communication with the service?”
“Never.”
Greene was still on the phone.
“I checked that after our conversation.”
“And?”
“You’re right.”
Daniel stared at the speaker.
“Then who forged it?”
Greene’s voice became uneasy.
“We’re reviewing access.”
Dad asked:
“Who could submit something into his file?”
“Case personnel. Protection supervisors. Sometimes attorneys.”
Daniel looked at me.
“Attorney.”
The Virginia law office.
The one that had mailed his letter to my parents.
Greene continued:
“There was one outside attorney authorized as a communication intermediary.”
“Who?”
“Samuel Price.”
My mother made a sound.
Dad turned toward her.
“You know him?”
She went pale.
“Sam Price?”
“Yes.”
Mom slowly sat.
“He was the lawyer who brought the seventy-five-thousand-dollar agreement.”
Nobody spoke.
The room became very cold.
Marcus Bell’s lawyer had somehow also become an authorized intermediary in Daniel’s protected communications.
Greene swore.
“I need to make calls.”
Daniel’s voice sharpened.
“Now you understand why I don’t love people making judgment calls.”
Greene disconnected.
Mom stared into space.
“Sam Price told me he represented Vale Industrial.”
“He probably did,” Daniel said.
“He also represented Bell privately.”
Dad’s jaw clenched.
“So Bell had someone inside the contact process.”
“Possibly.”
I looked at Daniel.
“That forged letter kept you from trying again.”
“Yes.”
“And the fake federal letter kept Mom from forwarding your first letter.”
“Yes.”
Slowly, a horrifying picture became clear.
For years, we had blamed ourselves for silence that other people had deliberately extended.
Not all of it.
My father still threw me out.
My mother still watched from behind the door.
They still chose pride and fear repeatedly.
But someone had also exploited those weaknesses.
Leo looked exhausted.
He had heard enough secrets for one day.
Daniel noticed.
“Hey.”
Leo looked at him.
“Want to get out of here?”
“Where?”
“Anywhere adults aren’t confessing felonies.”
Leo laughed.
It was the first normal sound in hours.
I almost cried.
We drove to a diner.
Just the three of us.
Daniel ordered black coffee.
Leo ordered pancakes even though it was nearly dinner.
I watched them study each other.
Same eyes.
Same habit of tapping fingers when thinking.
Leo finally asked:
“Did you want me?”
Daniel put down his mug.
“I didn’t know for sure you existed.”
“But if you knew?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“I would have wanted you every day.”
Leo stared at his pancakes.
“Mom wanted me.”
Daniel smiled.
“I know.”
“She worked two jobs.”
“I know.”
“She says I was expensive.”
“You probably were.”
“I still am.”
Daniel laughed.
The ice cracked a little.
Then Leo asked the question I feared.
“Are you staying?”
Daniel looked at me before answering.
“I’m not disappearing.”
Not I’m moving in.
Not we’re becoming a family tomorrow.
Just truth.
Good.
After dinner, Daniel walked us to my car.
He reached into his jacket.
“I brought something.”
A small wooden box.
Leo opened it.
Inside were ten sealed envelopes.
One for every birthday.
AGES 1 THROUGH 10.
Leo stared.
“You wrote me letters?”
Daniel nodded.
“Every year.”
“How?”
“I didn’t know your name, so most start with ‘Kid.’”
Leo smiled.
Then he noticed another envelope beneath them.
FOR EMMA.
I looked at Daniel.
“When did you write that?”
“Seven months after the fire.”
The same trip when he tried to come back.
I opened it after Leo fell asleep in the hotel.
Inside was one page.
Emma,
I made it as far as Columbus.
They’re taking me back tonight.
I’m sorry.
If you’re carrying our baby, tell them I tried to come home.
At the bottom was a second line.
One I had never seen before.
If I cannot come back, there is money for you and the child.
Ask my mother about the Mercer account.
May you like
I stopped breathing.
Margaret had never mentioned an account.
