The address belonged to a small farmhouse nearly forty miles outside town.
Dad knew the place.
I could tell from his face.
“You've been there.”
He nodded.
“Once.”
“When?”
“Before you were born.”
Sheriff Mercer folded the paper.
“Then we go together.”
The farmhouse sat behind a line of bare trees, its roof sagging beneath years of neglect.
Weeds had swallowed most of the driveway.
A rusted mailbox leaned sideways beside the road.
Dad stared at the house through the windshield.
“I haven't seen this place in thirty-eight years.”
“What happened here?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Finally he said, “Harold rented it.”
The sheriff looked at him.
“For what?”
“I don't know.”
We entered through the back door.
The hinges screamed.
Inside, the air smelled of damp wood and old dust.
A faded couch sat beneath a broken window.
The kitchen had no appliances.
A child’s red plastic truck rested beneath a table.
Dad stopped.
“There was a child here.”
I looked at him.
“How old?”
“Maybe three.”
“Grant?”
Dad shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Sheriff Mercer examined the floor.
“There are fresh footprints.”
Dad looked at me.
Someone had been here recently.
We moved toward the hallway.
The first bedroom was empty.
The second contained a mattress and a metal filing cabinet.
The third had photographs scattered across the floor.
I knelt.
Most showed Harold.
Some showed Mom.
Others showed Grant as a child.
But one photograph stopped me.
It showed a little boy who looked remarkably like Grant.
Beside him stood a woman I didn't recognize.
On the back was a date from forty years earlier.
Dad took the photograph.
His face drained of color.
“I know her.”
“Who?”
“Linda.”
“Who is Linda?”
“Harold's first wife.”
Sheriff Mercer looked at the picture.
“Was Grant hers?”
Dad shook his head.
“No.”
He turned the photograph over again.
“Grant was born before Harold married Linda.”
The sheriff looked around the room.
“Then whose child is this?”
Dad didn't answer.
We found the filing cabinet locked.
The brass key from Harold opened the top drawer.
Inside were birth certificates.
Old medical records.
Letters.
Bank statements.
And a photograph of Mom holding a newborn baby.
I stared.
“That's Grant.”
Dad sat on the floor.
He looked at the photograph for a long time.
“Your mother told me she was visiting her sister.”
“She was lying.”
“Yes.”
He looked at the papers.
“She gave birth here.”
The room became very quiet.
Sheriff Mercer opened a medical record.
“Mother: Eleanor Cole.”
“Father?”
She looked at the page.
“Blank.”
Dad closed his eyes.
Another document listed a payment from Harold to the clinic.
The date was three days after Grant’s birth.
The amount was substantial.
“Harold paid for everything,” I said.
Dad nodded.
Then I noticed another name.
A nurse.
Marjorie Bell.
Sheriff Mercer photographed the document.
“Let's find her.”
We spent the next hour searching the house.
Behind a loose floorboard, we found a cassette tape.
Dad stared at it.
“Your mother recorded everything.”
The sheriff found an old player in the cabinet.
It still worked.
We listened.
Mom's voice came through, younger than I remembered.
“I don't know how long I can keep this secret.”
A man's voice answered.
Harold.
“You promised me.”
“I promised to protect the baby.”
“He's my son.”
“He is also my husband's child to the world.”
Harold became angry.
“You knew what would happen if Thomas found out.”
Mom began crying.
“I love Thomas.”
“Then leave him.”
“I won't.”
“Then you live with the consequences.”
The recording ended.
Dad stared at the machine.
“I should have known.”
“No,” I said. “She hid it from you.”
“I trusted both of them.”
The sheriff placed the cassette into an evidence bag.
“There is more.”
She pointed toward the filing cabinet.
A second folder contained photographs of Grant visiting Harold over the years.
Dad looked at one.
Grant was perhaps sixteen.
Another showed him at twenty.
Then another at thirty.
Harold had been part of his life all along.
He had not merely appeared when Grant needed money.
He had been watching him.
Funding him.
Controlling him.
I found one final letter.
It was from Harold to Grant.
You must never tell Thomas. He will destroy everything if he learns the truth.
Dad read it.
His hands shook.
Then came another line.
Your mother made her choice when she stayed with him.
Dad folded the letter.
“That explains the hatred.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Grant always hated me.”
“He thought you were his biological father.”
Dad shook his head.
“He knew I wasn't.”
I stared.
“Then why did he stay?”
“Money.”
Sheriff Mercer nodded.
“That is likely part of it.”
We returned to town that evening.
Marjorie Bell was still alive.
She lived in an assisted-living apartment less than fifteen minutes away.
When we showed her the medical record, she immediately recognized the name.
“I wondered when someone would come.”
Dad sat opposite her.
“You knew Eleanor.”
Marjorie nodded.
“She was frightened.”
“Of Harold?”
“Of losing everything.”
“What did she tell you?”
Marjorie looked at me.
“She told me the baby's father was Harold.”
Dad closed his eyes.
Marjorie continued.
“But that wasn't the only thing she told me.”
“What else?”
“She said Harold wasn't the first person to know.”
I leaned forward.
“Who else?”
Marjorie shook her head.
“I promised Eleanor.”
“She’s dead.”
“I know.”
The old woman looked at Dad.
“You deserve the truth.”
She reached into a drawer and removed a small envelope.
“I kept this for thirty-eight years.”
Inside was a letter from a doctor.
The letter stated that Eleanor had arrived at the clinic accompanied by Harold and another man.
Dad stared at the name.
“Frank.”
I looked at him.
Our neighbor.
The same Frank Dad had called during the confrontation with Harold.
“That can't be.”
Marjorie nodded.
“Frank knew.”
Dad leaned back.
“Why?”
“Because Harold needed someone to drive him.”
“And Frank agreed?”
“He didn't know about the affair.”
Dad's eyes narrowed.
“Then what did he know?”
Marjorie hesitated.
“He knew the baby wasn't yours.”
I looked at Dad.
A second betrayal had surfaced.
Not because Frank had participated in the crime.
Because he had kept silent.
We returned home after dark.
Dad called Frank.
No answer.
He called again.
Still nothing.
Then Frank finally answered.
His voice sounded strained.
“Thomas.”
“Did you know?”
Silence.
“Frank, did you know Grant wasn't my son?”
Another silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“How long?”
“Since the day he was born.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I promised Eleanor.”
“She’s been dead for three years.”
“I know.”
“You watched me raise another man's son.”
Frank's voice broke.
“I was trying to protect you.”
Dad laughed bitterly.
“Everybody keeps saying that.”
Frank began crying.
“There is something else.”
Dad straightened.
“What?”
“I wasn't the only one who knew.”
“Who else?”
Frank hesitated.
“Vanessa.”
I froze.
Dad looked at me.
“What?”
Frank whispered:
“Your sister found out when she was seventeen.”
The line went dead.
Dad slowly lowered the phone.
“She knew before Grant did.”
Sheriff Mercer, who had been standing nearby, immediately reached for her radio.
“We need to bring Vanessa back.”
But before she could finish, my phone rang.
The number belonged to Willow Glen.
I answered.
A nurse spoke quickly.
“Natalie, your sister isn't here.”
“What?”
“Vanessa was transferred from the sheriff’s holding facility two hours ago.”
“Transferred where?”
The nurse paused.
“No one told us.”
Then she said something worse.
“She was taken by a man claiming to be her attorney.”
Click Here to continue read next: PART7: Vanessa Vanished From Custody Before She Could Testify, and the Note She Left Behind Pointed Directly Toward the Person Dad Trusted Most
My Sister Announced Our Father’s Death Before Sunrise, but the Man She Buried Was Sitting Across From Me Planning Something She Never Expected
Part 6 of 16
