Chapter 2 - The Empty EnvelopeI spent the next morning staring at the ceiling while nurses checked my eye.
The doctors still couldn't tell me whether I had permanent damage.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Derek swinging the jack.
But worse than the attack was the sentence repeating in my mind.
She has the envelope.
I couldn't remember why I'd put it beneath the spare tire.
Then it came back.
Three months earlier.
I had been cleaning the SUV after driving to another state for work. I found an envelope in the glove compartment that wasn't mine.
No return address.
No explanation.
Just my name.
Inside was a photograph.
My family standing outside our old house.
I was twelve.
Derek was sixteen.
My mother stood between us.
My father was missing from the picture.
I had assumed the photograph had been left there by mistake.
I put it in a drawer.
Then, months later, after buying the SUV, I'd found the envelope again.
I moved it to the cargo compartment.
I never opened it.
I couldn't explain why.
Maybe some part of me had always known there was something wrong with that photograph.
The detective returned at noon.
His name was Matthews.
He carried a folder thick enough to make my stomach turn.
“We recovered your phone,” he said.
“Did you arrest Derek?”
“He turned himself in.”
I felt no relief.
“Is he being charged?”
“Yes.”
“With attempted murder?”
Matthews hesitated.
“With aggravated assault at minimum. The final charges haven't been determined.”
My mother had apparently hired him a lawyer before the police finished processing the scene.
Of course she had.
“What about my SUV?”
“It's being held as evidence.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“We found something.”
He opened the folder.
Photographs.
The inside of my glove compartment.
The underside of the cargo floor.
The spare tire compartment.
Then one photograph made my heart stop.
A small magnetic tracking device.
Attached beneath the vehicle.
I stared at it.
“That's not mine.”
“I know.”
“How long has it been there?”
“We're still determining that.”
“Could Derek have put it there?”
“Possibly.”
My mind raced.
Someone had been tracking me.
For how long?
Matthews continued.
“We also recovered surveillance footage from the parking lot.”
He pressed a tablet toward me.
The footage showed Derek standing beside my SUV.
But he wasn't alone.
A man had approached him.
Tall.
Dark jacket.
Baseball cap.
The man's face was hidden.
Derek handed him something.
Then pointed toward my vehicle.
The footage ended.
“Do you recognize him?” Matthews asked.
“No.”
“Your brother says he doesn't know him.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Your brother is a liar.”
Matthews didn't disagree.
He pulled another photograph from the folder.
“This was taken at the barbecue.”
I looked.
It showed Derek standing beside my SUV.
Except the angle was wrong.
He wasn't looking at the vehicle.
He was looking under it.
As though searching for something.
Then I remembered what he had said.
You don't deserve that car.
He hadn't sounded jealous.
He had sounded angry.
As though the SUV belonged to someone else.
“What exactly do you think he wanted?” I asked.
Matthews leaned back.
“We found financial records.”
“Derek's?”
“No.”
“Whose?”
“Your mother's.”
My throat tightened.
“What about them?”
“She owes several people money.”
“That isn't exactly a secret.”
“Not this kind of money.”
He opened the folder.
I saw numbers.
Transfers.
Wire payments.
Deposits.
Withdrawals.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars.
My mother had never had that kind of money.
According to the records, she had moved enormous sums through different accounts over several years.
I whispered, “Where did she get this?”
Matthews looked at me.
“That's what we're trying to determine.”
I stared at the papers.
Then I noticed a name.
A company.
Bellmont Holdings.
The name meant nothing.
But one account number looked familiar.
My account number.
The one I had seen on the forged document.
I pointed.
“Why is my name on these?”
Matthews frowned.
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
“I can't.”
He watched me carefully.
“Do you remember receiving money from Bellmont Holdings?”
“No.”
“Ever signing business documents?”
“No.”
“Ever opening a corporate account?”
“No.”
He closed the folder.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Your identity may have been used to move money.”
I looked at him.
“For what?”
“We don't know.”
“Money laundering?”
“We don't know.”
“Fraud?”
“Possibly.”
“Why would they use me?”
Matthews didn't answer.
My phone buzzed on the table.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Silence.
Then a distorted voice whispered:
“Stop asking questions.”
My heart pounded.
“Who is this?”
A pause.
Then:
“Your mother is trying to save your brother.”
I swallowed.
“And who are you?”
The voice laughed softly.
“You really don't remember what happened to your father?”
The line went dead.
My hands began shaking.
My father.
I hadn't heard his name in years.
He had disappeared when I was twelve.
My mother always told me the same story.
He abandoned us.
He left.
He didn't want us.
But suddenly, sitting in that hospital bed, I realized something.
I couldn't remember the last time I had actually seen him.
I couldn't remember saying goodbye.
I couldn't remember him packing a bag.
I couldn't remember him leaving the house.
The details were simply…
missing.
I turned toward Matthews.
“My father.”
“Yes?”
“I think my mother lied about him.”
Matthews' expression changed.
“Why?”
I stared at the empty envelope in the evidence bag.
“Because someone just asked me if I remember what happened to him.”
Matthews stood slowly.
“What's your father's full name?”
I told him.
He wrote it down.
Then he stopped.
His pen froze.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“We've been looking for that name.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
Matthews didn't answer immediately.
Then he said:
“Because your father died twelve years ago.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“We found a death certificate.”
“No.”
“Your mother reported his death.”
“That isn't possible.”
Matthews opened the folder.
The certificate was there.
But there was something else.
A photograph.
A body.
And across the bottom of the page was a note from the original investigator.
IDENTIFICATION UNCONFIRMED.
I looked up.
“That's not my father.”
Matthews nodded.
May you like
“We know.”
And suddenly the room felt much colder.
Related Stories
