Chapter 6 - The Father I Buried
I had watched my father die.
At least, I thought I had.
Thomas Carter spent his final week in a veterans' hospital outside Boston.
Cancer.
Liver failure.
Medication that made him drift in and out.
I held his hand while his breathing slowed.
A nurse covered him with a white sheet.
I signed papers.
I chose a casket.
I watched that casket go into the ground.
So when his voice came through my phone three years later, my mind rejected it before my heart could react.
“Dad?”
The call disconnected.
Julian stood across from me.
“What happened?”
I couldn't answer.
“Rebecca.”
I looked at him.
“My father.”
Julian froze.
“What?”
“He's alive.”
Owen immediately began tracing the call.
Julian didn't move.
Maybe because he knew exactly what it felt like.
Within two minutes, security teams were headed toward my apartment.
We arrived fifteen minutes later.
Nobody was there.
The building manager sat on the stairs looking shaken.
“What happened?”
“He left.”
“What did he look like?”
“Older guy. Gray hair. Thin.”
“Did he have a scar?”
The manager pointed to his left eyebrow.
“Here?”
My knees nearly failed.
Dad had gotten that scar in Kuwait.
It was him.
“Where did he go?”
“He walked out the back.”
“What did he take?”
The manager shook his head.
“Nothing.”
I ran to my bedroom.
The photograph was gone.
But on the nightstand was another note.
Becky, forgive me. Come alone. You know where your mother used to watch the water.
Julian stood behind me.
“Where?”
I folded the note.
“He said alone.”
“That's not happening.”
I turned.
“Apparently my dead father thinks I shouldn't trust you.”
His expression tightened.
“I noticed.”
“I need answers.”
“You need security.”
“I need my father.”
Silence.
Leah was still safely at the hotel.
That was the only reason I could think clearly.
My mother used to watch the water from Castle Island.
There was a bench near the old fort where she took me as a child.
I hadn't been there in years.
We compromised.
I went to the bench alone.
Julian's security stayed far enough away that Dad wouldn't see them.
Or so we hoped.
He appeared at 4:26 p.m.
Walking slowly.
Gray coat.
Cane.
Older than when I buried him.
But alive.
I stood.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then anger saved me from collapsing.
“You let me bury you.”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“You let Leah cry at your funeral.”
“Yes.”
“You let me think you were dead.”
“Yes.”
I slapped him.
The sound shocked both of us.
He nodded.
“I deserved that.”
I hit him again.
Then I hugged him.
I hated myself for it.
I hated him.
I loved him.
I cried into the shoulder of a dead man.
Finally I pulled away.
“How?”
“Another patient died the same night. Similar age. No family. Records were changed.”
“You expect me to accept that?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Daniel Mercer.”
The name destroyed the reunion instantly.
Dad sat on the bench.
“He found me in 2022.”
“Before you died.”
“Yes.”
“He threatened me again?”
“He threatened Leah.”
My blood went cold.
Dad looked toward the harbor.
“I had spent years preparing evidence. But Daniel had people everywhere. Museum. Banking. Customs. Private security.”
“So you disappeared.”
“To pull him away from you.”
“You could have told me.”
“No.”
“You don't get to decide that!”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
My voice broke.
“You missed three years of her life.”
His face collapsed.
That was when I saw the cost.
Not enough to forgive him.
But enough to understand he had paid too.
He removed the missing photograph from inside his coat.
I grabbed it.
“You broke into my apartment?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“Daniel's people.”
“How did you get this?”
“I followed them.”
He opened the back of the frame.
Nothing.
“No manuscript?”
He smiled faintly.
“Daniel always thought too literally.”
Then he peeled away the photograph itself.
On the back was writing.
Tiny Arabic script.
Invisible unless tilted toward light.
Leah's baby picture was the manuscript.
Or part of it.
Dad explained.
“The original document was photographed in sections. Microprinting. I distributed the pieces.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
“Where?”
He looked at me.
“One with you.”
“Others?”
“People I trusted.”
“Who?”
“One is dead.”
Of course.
“One disappeared.”
Even better.
“One is Evelyn Mercer.”
I stared at him.
“Evelyn?”
“She helped me.”
“But she knew about the false translation.”
“Yes.”
“Why would she help you?”
“Because people are complicated, Becky.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You could put that on our family crest.”
Dad almost smiled.
Then became serious.
“Julian doesn't know his entire family history.”
“He knows enough.”
“No.”
Dad looked toward the road.
“He thinks Daniel Mercer is his father.”
“He is.”
Dad shook his head.
“No.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Daniel raised Julian.”
My heart started pounding.
“But biologically?”
Dad looked at me.
“Arthur Mercer had another son.”
I stared.
“Who?”
“David Mercer.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died during the Al-Rashid expedition.”
The pieces shifted.
“Julian is David's son?”
“Yes.”
“Does Evelyn know?”
“Of course.”
“Does Julian?”
“No.”
I sat beside him.
This was becoming impossible.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because David discovered the theft first.”
Dad took a breath.
“He wanted to expose Daniel. Three days later, David was killed in what authorities called a vehicle accident.”
“Daniel?”
“I believe so.”
“And Evelyn married Daniel?”
“She was already married to David.”
I stared.
Dad continued.
“After David died, Daniel became Julian's guardian. Later, he and Evelyn married privately overseas. They hid the family scandal.”
I felt sick.
“So Daniel isn't Julian's father.”
“No.”
“He's his uncle.”
“Yes.”
The man Julian had mourned as a father was actually the man my father believed killed his real one.
I looked toward the distant security vehicle.
“Julian needs to know.”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“Not yet.”
“You don't get to keep choosing for everyone.”
He looked at me.
“You're right.”
That surprised me.
Then he handed me a small envelope.
“Give him this.”
Inside was a DNA report.
Julian Mercer.
David Mercer.
Probability of paternity: 99.98%.
“How did you get Julian's DNA?”
Dad looked embarrassed.
“Coffee cup.”
I stared at him.
“Seriously?”
“Intelligence work is less glamorous than movies suggest.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
For half a second, he was my father again.
Then a car pulled into the parking lot.
Black sedan.
Dad's face changed.
“Go.”
“What?”
“Now.”
The car door opened.
Julian stepped out.
Dad stood.
“No.”
I turned.
“It's okay.”
Dad looked terrified.
Not of Julian.
For Julian.
Then another vehicle entered from the opposite side.
Evelyn Mercer got out.
She saw Dad.
Stopped.
Her hand went to her mouth.
“Thomas?”
Julian looked between them.
Nobody spoke.
Dad whispered:
“This wasn't supposed to happen.”
Evelyn walked closer.
Tears filled her eyes.
For all her control, she suddenly looked twenty years younger.
“You're alive.”
Dad nodded.
Then Evelyn did something none of us expected.
She crossed the distance and hugged him.
Julian's face hardened.
“You two want to explain?”
Evelyn stepped back.
Dad looked at me.
Then Julian.
“There isn't time.”
A third car entered.
Dad's expression went white.
It stopped near the fort.
A man stepped out.
Late sixties.
Dark coat.
Silver hair.
Julian stared.
I knew before anyone said his name.
Daniel Mercer.
The dead man from the plane crash.
Alive.
He looked at Julian almost affectionately.
“Hello, son.”
Julian didn't move.
Daniel smiled.
Then Dad whispered beside me:
“He's not your son.”
May you like
And every lie the Mercer family had protected for twenty-eight years finally broke open at once.
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