PART5

About the way he whistled off-key while cooking breakfast on Sundays. About the time he drove three hours to bring me a spare tire when my car broke down during college. About how he pretended not to notice when Scott borrowed money he never repaid.

And about the one thing Dad had always told us whenever life became difficult.

“Whatever happens,” he’d say, “never let money decide what kind of person you become.”

At the time, I thought he was talking about spending habits.

Now I wondered whether he had been talking about something far more important.

Scott called that evening.

Mom was upstairs, and I was washing the dishes when my phone began vibrating on the counter.

His name appeared on the screen.

I almost let it go to voicemail.

Then I answered.

“What?”

“Nice way to answer your brother.”

“You sold Dad’s watch.”

Silence.

Then a sigh.

“Are we still doing this?”

“Yes, Scott. We’re still doing this.”

“Jen, I told you I needed money. I was broke. I figured the watch was worth forty dollars, and I—”

“You sold it for forty dollars and spent it at a bar.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

“Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it matters. Everybody makes me sound like some kind of criminal.”

I gripped the edge of the counter.

“You took something from Mom’s house without asking her. You sold it. You lied about why you needed the money. And now you’re upset because someone knows what happened.”

“I didn’t lie!”

“You said you needed gas money.”

“I needed money. What’s the difference?”

I closed my eyes.

There it was.

The same excuse he’d used his entire life.

The amount didn’t matter. The lie didn’t matter. The people hurt along the way didn’t matter.

Only his need mattered.

“Scott, listen to me. The shop owner found something inside the watch. A note Dad left for Mom.”

There was a pause.

“What kind of note?”

“I don’t know everything yet. It mentions the old steel mill, Locker 214, and a man named Daniel Whitaker.”

Scott gave a short laugh.

“So Dad left Mom a treasure map?”

“I’m serious.”

“Fine. Go look for buried gold. Maybe you’ll finally get something out of this family besides another lecture about how irresponsible I am.”

I could hear a television playing in the background.

He sounded relaxed.

Almost amused.

That made me angrier than anything else.

“Scott, Dad was trying to tell Mom something important.”

“Then why didn’t he tell her while he was alive?”

“I don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Maybe he wanted you to have a mystery to solve. You’ve always liked that kind of thing.”

I nearly hung up.

Then I heard him say something that made my hand freeze.

“Wait. You said Daniel Whitaker?”

“Yes.”

The television continued playing.

Scott stopped talking.

“Scott?”

“Where did you hear that name?”

“It’s in the note. Why?”

He didn’t answer.

“Scott, do you know something?”

“No.”

The word came too quickly.

I straightened.

“Look at me and tell me you don’t know anything about Daniel Whitaker.”

“I’m not looking at you. We’re on the phone.”

“Don’t be clever.”

He exhaled sharply.

“Dad mentioned him once. Years ago. That’s all.”

“When?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What did Dad say?”

“Something about an old coworker.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

I heard the faint scrape of a chair.

Then Scott’s voice changed.

“Listen, Jen. Whatever you find at that mill, don’t go making accusations against people who aren’t here to defend themselves.”

I stared at the phone.

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Scott—”

“I have to go.”

He hung up.

I remained standing in the kitchen, listening to the silence.

For three months, I’d believed Scott had stolen the watch because he was careless, selfish, and desperate for money.

I still believed those things.

But now I wondered whether there was another reason he had reacted so strangely when I mentioned Daniel Whitaker.

I called him back.

He didn’t answer.

I sent a text.

What did Dad tell you about Daniel?

The message showed as delivered.

No reply came.

An hour later, Mom came downstairs carrying Dad’s old wooden toolbox.

“What are you doing with that?” I asked.

She placed it on the table.

“Looking for something.”

She opened the lid.

Inside were screwdrivers, a small hammer, a tape measure, rusty nails, and a few pieces of sandpaper. Everything was arranged the way Dad had left it.

Mom moved the tools aside.

At the bottom was a folded sheet of paper.

She picked it up.

“Harold used to keep this in his toolbox. I remember seeing it years ago, but I never read it.”

She unfolded the sheet.

It was a faded photograph.

Three men stood outside the steel mill, wearing work clothes and holding lunch pails.

Dad stood in the middle.

The man on his left was younger, with dark hair and a serious expression.

The man on his right wore a baseball cap and had one arm draped over Dad’s shoulder.

On the back, in Dad’s handwriting, were three names.

Harold Brennan. Daniel Whitaker. Robert Vale.

Beneath them was another sentence.

The three of us knew the truth.

Mom stared at the photograph.

Then she whispered a name I had never heard her say before.

“Robert Vale.”

I looked at her.

“Who is he?”

She turned the picture over again.

“He became a very important man.”

“How important?”

Mom looked at me.

“By the time your father retired, Robert Vale was the chairman of the company that owned the mill.”

My stomach dropped.

The man who had stood beside Dad in the photograph had eventually become one of the most powerful people connected to the place where Dad had spent his life.

And Dad had written that the three of them knew the truth.

I studied the picture.

Three men.

One secret.

Forty-five years of silence.

And somewhere inside an old building, there might still be a ledger that explained everything.

But the most troubling question was no longer what Dad had discovered in 1981.

It was why he had waited until the end of his life to tell Mom about it.

And why Scott, who had sold that watch for the price of a few drinks, seemed suddenly afraid of what we might find.

The following Tuesday, Mr. Cole called.

CONTINUE FOR NEXT PART6…