Chapter 10
Chapter 10
For several seconds, I could hear nothing except my own breathing.
Michael Vale.
The name seemed impossible.
It belonged to a photograph, a hidden file, a sentence written in a dead woman's handwriting.
And yet someone outside knew him.
Someone had taken Eli because of him.
Damon leaned toward my ear.
“Can you move?”
I nodded.
He pointed toward the back of the room.
There was another door.
I hadn't seen it.
He moved silently.
I followed.
The footsteps outside stopped.
“Evelyn.”
The man's voice was closer now.
“You have five minutes.”
Damon opened the second door.
It led into another passage.
We slipped inside.
The door closed behind us.
We moved through darkness.
My hand was still in Damon's.
Neither of us mentioned it.
At the end of the passage, we emerged behind the old station into an alley covered in snow.
A black truck was parked near the tracks.
Damon pulled me behind a concrete barrier.
Then he looked toward the station.
“We need to call the police.”
I nodded.
He reached for his phone.
Nothing.
No signal.
“Of course.”
Then headlights appeared.
A vehicle approached the station.
Not police.
Another black SUV.
Damon's face hardened.
“Someone else is here.”
“What do we do?”
“We leave.”
“But Eli—”
“We can't get him back if we're caught.”
He pulled me toward the car.
We reached it.
The engine started.
Then headlights swept across us.
A gunshot cracked through the night.
I screamed.
The windshield shattered.
Damon ducked and pulled me down.
“Stay low!”
Another shot.
Then silence.
Damon started the car.
The tires spun on snow.
We tore away from the station.
I looked back.
Two vehicles followed.
“They're following us.”
“I know.”
“Can you lose them?”
“Yes.”
He drove faster.
Snow flew beneath the tires.
The old road twisted through pine trees.
One SUV remained behind us.
The other disappeared.
Damon glanced at the rearview mirror.
“That's intentional.”
“What?”
“They want us to follow the first vehicle.”
“Why?”
“Because the second one is going somewhere else.”
My heart dropped.
“Where?”
He looked at me.
“The cottage.”
I went cold.
“Eli's not there.”
“No.”
“But Mrs. Whitcomb—”
“She went home.”
I grabbed my phone.
I called her.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
“Damon.”
He turned the car around.
The SUV behind us followed.
We drove back toward Clearwater.
The cottage came into view.
Lights were on.
Too many.
Three vehicles sat outside.
My stomach twisted.
Damon stopped before the driveway.
“Stay here.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Damon.”
He looked at me.
“This time, you stay.”
There was no arrogance in his voice.
Only fear.
He stepped out.
Two men appeared from the cottage.
They raised their hands.
Damon stopped.
One of them shouted something.
Then I saw Mrs. Whitcomb.
She was walking out behind them.
Alive.
I exhaled.
Damon approached.
The men were not armed.
They were local police.
One officer spoke to him.
Then pointed toward the cottage.
I got out.
Damon turned sharply.
“I told you to stay.”
“I don't follow orders anymore.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he nodded.
Inside the cottage, everything was untouched.
Except Eli's room.
Someone had left something on the desk.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
Michael.
Older now.
Maybe in his thirties.
Standing beside a lake.
On the back:
HE KNOWS WHAT THOMAS DID.
I looked at Damon.
“Who is Thomas?”
“My father.”
“What did he do?”
“I don't know.”
“Find out.”
He took the photograph.
“There is something else.”
“What?”
He pointed toward the bottom corner.
A location.
A town.
Superior, Wisconsin.
Then a street address.
I recognized it.
“That's not far.”
Damon nodded.
“We go now.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“We don't know if it's a trap.”
“We know where Michael may be.”
“We also know someone took our son.”
He stopped.
I stepped closer.
“Damon, I want Eli back more than anything in this world. But if Michael is the reason they took him, we can't just rush toward another unknown person.”
Damon looked at the photograph.
“You're right.”
It surprised me how easily he said it.
He called Arthur.
“Find everything on this address.”
Then he added:
“No police.”
I looked at him.
“Damon.”
He corrected himself.
“Find out whether the address is connected to anyone. Quietly.”
We waited.
Twenty minutes.
Then Arthur called back.
Damon listened.
His expression changed.
“Say that again.”
Silence.
“What hospital?”
My stomach tightened.
Damon ended the call.
“Michael is alive.”
I held my breath.
“He's in a hospital in Superior.”
“Why?”
“Coma.”
The word devastated me.
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
I looked at the photograph.
“Then who knew he was alive?”
Damon's face was grim.
“Someone has been visiting him.”
“Who?”
“No name.”
“Damon.”
He looked at me.
“The hospital records show every visitor signed under the same initials.”
“M.V.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“D.V.”
My heart stopped.
D.V.
Damon Vale.
I stared at him.
“You?”
“I have never seen him.”
“Then someone is signing your name.”
He nodded.
“Someone wants it to look like I knew about Michael.”
“And if they wanted to frame you?”
“They would need more than a visitor log.”
“Unless they wanted you blamed for taking Eli.”
Damon went silent.
The thought settled between us.
Someone was constructing a story.
A story where Damon had known about Michael.
A story where Damon had hidden him.
A story where Damon had taken his own son.
Someone was setting him up.
Or worse.
Someone was setting both of us up.
We drove to Superior before dawn.
The hospital was quiet when we arrived.
Damon wore a baseball cap and a dark coat.
I wore a borrowed sweater from Mrs. Whitcomb.
We looked nothing like the couple whose lives were suddenly entangled in an inheritance war.
The nurse at the front desk checked the records.
“Michael Vale?”
She frowned.
“He has a restricted chart.”
“I'm his family,” Damon said.
She looked at him.
Then at me.
“Can you prove that?”
Damon pulled out identification.
The nurse's face changed.
“You're Damon Vale.”
“Yes.”
She stood.
“I need to get the attending physician.”
We waited.
A doctor came.
He was young.
Tired.
His expression changed when he saw Damon.
“You're the man who has been visiting him.”
Damon went still.
“No.”
The doctor frowned.
“You signed in six times.”
“I wasn't here.”
The doctor looked at me.
Then back at Damon.
“That isn't possible.”
“It is.”
The doctor pulled up the record.
Dates.
Times.
Signatures.
All Damon Vale.
I stared at the screen.
The last visit was yesterday.
At 11:43 p.m.
While Damon and I had been at the railway station.
The doctor whispered, “Who are you?”
Damon didn't answer.
He looked at me.
“Someone wants me to look guilty.”
The hospital lights flickered.
Then the fire alarm went off.
People began moving.
Nurses shouted.
A door slammed.
Damon grabbed my hand.
“Stay with me.”
We moved toward Michael's room.
Smoke filled the corridor.
The fire alarm blared.
When we reached the room, the bed was empty.
The window was open.
Machines had been disconnected.
On the pillow was another envelope.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
Eli.
My son.
Alive.
Sitting in a wooden chair.
Holding Rocket.
His eyes were red from crying.
On the back:
MICHAEL IS NOT THE ANSWER.
Then another line.
ASK YOUR HUSBAND WHAT HAPPENED ON OCTOBER 14, 1998.
I turned toward Damon.
He had gone completely still.
“What happened that day?”
He stared at the photograph.
“I don't know.”
“Damon.”
He closed his eyes.
Then whispered:
“I was twelve.”
“So?”
“My father told me my mother had died.”
My blood went cold.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“But Celeste is alive.”
“I know.”
He opened his eyes.
“That was the day Celeste disappeared.”
The room seemed to lose all oxygen.
“What?”
“My father told me she had left us.”
Damon's voice was barely audible.
“But she didn't.”
He looked at me.
“She was hiding.”
“From whom?”
His face filled with horror.
“From my father.”
Before I could ask anything else, his phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A child's voice spoke.
“Daddy?”
Damon stopped breathing.
It was Eli.
Then my son whispered:
“I'm with the nice lady.”
The call ended.
I grabbed Damon's arm.
“Trace it.”
He already was.
A location appeared on his screen.
Not Wisconsin.
Not Chicago.
A place neither of us expected.
Green Bay.
My mother's hometown.
The same town where my mother had spent the final years before she died.
Damon looked at me.
“We're going home.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
He frowned.
“That's where they're taking us.”
I looked at the photograph.
At Eli.
At the address.
At the name Anna Vale.
Then I remembered something my mother had said when I was little.
Whenever I asked why she had left Wisconsin, she always answered the same way.
Because some places remember you.
I had thought she meant people.
May you like
Now I understood.
She meant secrets.
