Chapter 6
I thought I had misunderstood him.
“What?”
Mark stared at the dead phone.
“When I was sixteen, I used to climb onto the lower roof outside my bedroom.”
“Why?”
“To get away.”
“From Diane?”
He nodded.
“Mostly.”
Detective Grant pulled out his notebook.
“You never mentioned this.”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot being on the roof the night your father died?”
“No.”
Mark pressed both hands against the table.
“I forgot why Dad went outside.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“He was looking for me.”
The room went silent.
Mark swallowed.
“My parents were fighting. I climbed out my window like I always did.”
“You were on the roof?”
“The lower section.”
“Where was your father?”
“Inside at first.”
Mark’s voice became shaky.
“He came into my bedroom, saw the window open and thought I had climbed higher.”
“Did you?”
“No. I had already jumped down onto the deck.”
Grant asked, “Then what?”
“I heard him calling my name.”
“From the roof?”
“Yes.”
My heart pounded.
“And Diane?”
“I heard her too.”
Mark looked physically ill.
“She told me afterward that Dad went up to repair something.”
“But he went looking for you.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told police?”
“I was sixteen and my father was dead.”
His voice broke.
“Mom told me it happened because I climbed out.”
I covered my mouth.
“She blamed you?”
“Not directly.”
That was probably worse.
“She said, ‘If only you had stayed in your room.’”
I felt rage unlike anything I had known.
For twenty-five years, Diane had let her son believe his father died because of him.
Grant’s face hardened.
“Mark, listen to me. Your father made his own choice to look for you. And if someone caused his fall, that responsibility belongs to them.”
Mark stared at him.
“What if Dad slipped because he was looking for me?”
“Then it was still an accident, not your fault.”
“But if Mom pushed him…”
“Then it was her fault.”
Mark looked away.
I took his hand.
“Your father went looking because he loved you.”
His eyes filled.
“He died thinking I was up there.”
“No. We don’t know what he thought.”
“I should have answered.”
“You were a scared kid trying to escape a screaming house.”
Mark finally cried.
Not quietly.
Not politely.
Years of guilt came out at once.
I held him.
Even Grant looked away to give us privacy.
After several minutes, Mark straightened.
“I want to go back to the old house.”
Grant frowned.
“Why?”
“There might be something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mark—”
“My dad hid things.”
“The deposit box proves that.”
“He had a workshop in the garage.”
“Does the house still exist?”
“Yes.”
“Who owns it?”
Mark hesitated.
“My mother.”
Of course she did.
She rented it out for years but never sold it.
Grant immediately became interested.
“Is it occupied?”
“I don’t know.”
A property search showed it was currently vacant.
Renovation permits had been filed two months earlier.
Contractor listed:
Hale Risk Consulting Property Services.
Victor.
Grant’s expression darkened.
“We’re getting a warrant.”
By late afternoon, police entered the old Carter house.
Mark and I were not allowed inside initially.
We waited across the street.
The house looked smaller than it did in old photographs.
Gray siding.
A steep roof.
Large oak tree.
Mark stared at the upper windows.
“That was my room.”
I squeezed his hand.
Thirty minutes later, Grant came outside.
“We found something.”
Mark stepped forward.
“What?”
“Come with me.”
Inside, the house smelled like dust and fresh drywall.
Grant led us toward the garage.
A section of wall had recently been opened.
Behind it was a narrow cavity.
Inside were boxes.
Dozens.
Photographs.
Videotapes.
Folders.
Old computer drives.
Grant stopped us before we approached.
“Evidence team is documenting everything.”
Mark stared.
“What is all that?”
“We don’t know yet.”
But we did know one thing.
Victor had been collecting information for decades.
On shelves, boxes were labeled with names.
Some unfamiliar.
Some recognizable.
PETER.
THOMAS.
MARK.
Mark’s face changed when he saw his own.
Then I noticed another.
EMILY.
My name.
I pointed.
“That one.”
Grant followed my finger.
His expression tightened.
“Don’t touch anything.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
An evidence technician opened my box.
Inside were photographs.
Me leaving work.
Me dropping Lily at preschool.
Me jogging.
Me visiting my doctor while pregnant.
Photos going back years.
I felt violated.
Sick.
“They were watching me before Lily was born.”
Mark looked furious.
Another photograph showed me and Mark leaving our wedding reception.
Someone had followed us that night too.
Grant asked the technician to catalogue everything.
Then an officer called from the back.
“Detective.”
Grant walked over.
We followed at a distance.
The officer stood beside an old metal workbench.
“There’s a compartment.”
He lifted a false panel.
Inside was a small digital recorder sealed in plastic.
Mark whispered, “Dad’s workbench.”
Grant carefully removed it.
The device was old but newer than Thomas’s death.
Not his.
Victor’s.
Underneath it was something else.
A wedding ring.
Mark recognized it.
“My father’s.”
His voice barely worked.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Was he wearing it when he died?”
“Yes.”
Grant looked at him.
“The property report from the scene says his ring was returned to Diane with his personal effects.”
Mark stared at the ring.
“Then why is it here?”
Nobody answered.
Maybe Diane had lied about receiving it.
Maybe Victor had taken it.
Maybe someone had placed it there later.
Every possibility was disturbing.
We returned to my parents’ house after dark.
Lily ran to us.
This time, I appreciated the ordinary things.
Her pajamas.
Her messy ponytail.
The chocolate around her mouth.
“Grandpa gave me ice cream.”
My father shouted from the kitchen, “I regret nothing.”
For five minutes, we laughed.
Then the doorbell rang.
Everyone froze.
My father checked the camera.
A police cruiser.
Two officers stood outside.
Grant had arranged extra patrols.
One officer held an envelope.
“This was found attached to your mailbox.”
My stomach turned.
Another message.
The officer placed it inside an evidence bag.
We could see the writing through the plastic.
MARK.
My husband opened it after officers photographed everything.
Inside was a single photocopied page.
A roof diagram.
The old house.
One section circled in red.
Mark frowned.
“I know this spot.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Near the chimney.”
The officers notified Grant.
Within twenty minutes, police were back at the old house.
They searched the circled roof section.
Under a loose metal flashing strip, they found a waterproof tube.
Inside was a tiny memory card.
The card contained one video.
Dated the night Thomas died.
The footage was grainy.
Shot from somewhere overlooking the backyard.
We watched it with Grant the next morning.
Thomas climbed onto the roof.
He called, “Mark!”
Diane came outside.
“Thomas, get down.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s probably hiding.”
“He could fall.”
Thomas climbed higher.
Then Victor entered the frame.
Mark stood.
“No.”
Victor climbed a ladder.
Diane followed.
The camera angle only captured part of the roof.
Thomas appeared near the chimney.
Victor approached him.
They argued.
No audio.
Diane moved between them.
Then the three disappeared behind the roofline.
For twelve seconds, nothing happened.
Then Thomas suddenly fell into view.
He hit the lower roof and disappeared from the camera’s frame.
Diane leaned over the edge.
Victor stood behind her.
Neither moved for several seconds.
Then Diane turned.
She struck Victor across the chest.
Victor grabbed her arms.
They argued.
Finally Diane climbed down.
Victor looked directly toward the hidden camera.
Then he walked toward it.
The video ended.
Mark couldn’t speak.
Neither could I.
Grant stared at the blank screen.
“This does not show who caused the fall.”
“But it proves they lied.”
“Yes.”
“It proves Victor was there.”
“Yes.”
Mark pointed at the screen.
“And they stood there after Dad fell.”
Grant nodded.
“Yes.”
Mark walked out of the room.
I found him in the backyard.
He stood beneath a maple tree, breathing hard.
I wrapped my arms around him.
He whispered, “He was looking for me.”
“I know.”
“Mom knew I wasn’t up there.”
I pulled back.
“What?”
His eyes widened as the realization formed.
“Look at the video.”
We went back inside.
“Play the beginning.”
Grant did.
Diane came outside after Thomas.
Thomas asked something.
No audio.
But her body language was calm.
Mark pointed.
“She knew I had gone downstairs.”
“How?”
“Because she saw me.”
“When?”
“Before Dad came to my room.”
Mark’s face changed.
“She saw me leave through the back door.”
I stared at him.
“So when Thomas thought you were on the roof…”
“She could have told him I wasn’t.”
Grant stopped the video.
Diane had allowed Thomas to climb.
Maybe encouraged it.
Knowing Mark was safe.
Then Victor arrived.
The question was no longer whether Diane knew more than she had admitted.
The question was why she wanted Thomas on that roof.
At that exact moment, Grant’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed instantly.
“Where?”
He listened.
“Secure the scene. I’m coming.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“They found Victor.”
Mark stood.
“Where?”
May you like
Grant looked at us.
“Dead.”
