Chapter 3 - THE SILVER WOLF ON HIS JACKET
The symbol my father feared belonged to Salvatore Marquette's family.
I wanted to believe it was a coincidence.
But I'd seen the silver wolf embroidered inside his charcoal jacket when he removed it at Bellamy's.
And now Danny was telling me our father had warned us against men wearing that same emblem.
I looked at Detective Mitchell.
"Can we search the toolbox?"
She nodded.
"With your permission, we can document and examine it."
I agreed.
The following morning, investigators brought the toolbox to a secure room.
Danny and I watched as an evidence technician inspected its compartments.
At first, nothing unusual appeared.
Old screwdrivers.
A measuring tape.
Electrical connectors.
Several faded receipts.
Then the technician removed a false panel beneath the bottom tray.
My breath caught.
Inside was a small metal case.
Wrapped in blue cloth.
Danny grabbed my hand.
He was trembling.
The case contained a flash drive, three photographs, and a handwritten letter.
The letter was addressed to us.
For Lily and Danny.
I covered my mouth.
Dad's handwriting.
The same crooked letters he'd used on our birthday cards.
Detective Mitchell asked whether we wanted the letter examined before reading it.
I nodded.
A short time later, she handed us a documented copy.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
My beautiful children,
If you're reading this, then I wasn't able to come home.
Tears blurred the words.
I need you to understand something.
I never wanted to leave you.
Danny began crying.
I wrapped an arm around him.
The letter continued.
I discovered financial records connected to men who believe they can buy anyone's silence.
I tried to report what I found.
Now I'm afraid they're watching us.
My stomach tightened.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
Lily, take care of your brother.
Danny, keep drawing. Keep learning. Don't let anyone make you ashamed of how you communicate.
I started sobbing.
Dad had learned basic sign language after Danny lost his hearing.
He wasn't fluent.
But he always tried.
The final sentence read:
If something happens to me, ask what really happened at Marquette Shipping.
I looked up.
"Marquette Shipping?"
Detective Mitchell nodded.
"That's one of the businesses connected to Salvatore's family."
My stomach dropped.
Then she examined the photographs.
The first showed Dad beside an old warehouse.
The second showed several shipping containers.
And the third—
The third showed Dad standing beside a young man in a black coat.
He looked about eighteen.
Dark hair.
Sharp jaw.
A familiar scar near his cheek.
Salvatore Marquette.
I stared.
He'd been standing beside my father fifteen years earlier.
The same year the explosion destroyed Salvatore's hearing.
Then Detective Mitchell turned the photograph over.
A date was written beneath two names.
Michael Bennett. Salvatore Marquette.
And below them, in my father's handwriting, were four words.
He tried to stop it.
I looked toward Danny.
Then whispered, "Stop what?"
May you like
Detective Mitchell's expression darkened.
"The explosion that killed Salvatore's father."
