We didn't listen to the second recording at the house.
Ortiz insisted we return to a secure location first.
I understood why.
I didn't trust the room anymore.
Every photograph seemed different now.
Every memory had acquired a shadow.
My mother had been watching me.
Graham had been watching me.
Someone else had been watching both of them.
And Commander Ward's name was written on the recording my mother had hidden behind a wall of my childhood.
At the station, Ortiz placed the cassette into an old player.
The tape hissed.
Then my mother's voice appeared.
“Helena, if this reaches you, then I failed.”
A pause.
“I know what you did.”
Another pause.
“I also know why.”
Ward's voice came next.
“I didn't have a choice.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
My mother replied.
“You always have a choice.”
“I was protecting Lena.”
“No. You were protecting the operation.”
Silence.
Then Ward said something that changed everything.
“Graham wasn't supposed to hurt her.”
My hand tightened around the chair.
Ortiz stopped the tape.
“That's enough for now.”
“No.”
“You need a break.”
“Play it.”
“Lena—”
“Play it.”
She did.
The conversation continued.
Ward explained that years earlier, she had been assigned to investigate a network moving money through organizations connected to military families.
Graham was one of the intermediaries.
But he wasn't the architect.
The person above him had access to government contracts.
Someone capable of burying investigations.
Someone who had recruited Ward when she was still a junior officer.
The recording became distorted.
Then my mother's voice returned.
“Where is the ledger?”
Ward answered.
“Your daughter has it.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
Ortiz looked at me.
The tape continued.
“You put it in her apartment?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“I hid it where Graham would never look.”
The tape ended.
I stared at Ortiz.
“I don't have a ledger.”
“Maybe you do.”
She searched the recording equipment.
Nothing.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown number.
There was a photograph attached.
My apartment.
Taken from inside.
Underneath it was a sentence.
YOU'RE LOOKING IN THE WRONG PLACE.
Another message arrived.
YOUR MOTHER IS WAITING FOR YOU.
Then an address.
A motel on the edge of the city.
Ortiz stood.
“We're not going.”
“I am.”
“You're injured.”
“My mother is there.”
“Which is exactly why this could be bait.”
I looked at her.
“She left clues for me.”
“Or someone wants you to believe she did.”
The second possibility hurt because it made sense.
We went anyway.
The motel office was empty.
Room 14 was unlocked.
My mother sat on the edge of the bed.
She looked older than she had in the hospital.
Her hands were trembling.
When she saw me, she stood.
I stopped three feet away.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did Graham bring you here?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
She looked at Ortiz.
“Did you bring the police?”
“Yes.”
My mother nodded.
“Good.”
She sat down again.
I remained standing.
“You knew he was coming to my apartment.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about the locker.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me.”
“I had people watching you.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
“Why?”
“Because Graham believed you had the ledger.”
“I don't.”
My mother closed her eyes.
“You do.”
“No.”
“You've had it since you were nineteen.”
I stared at her.
“What are you talking about?”
“The blue box.”
My mind went back.
A small box my mother had given me before leaving.
She had told me it contained photographs of my father.
I had never opened it.
I suddenly remembered where it was.
My apartment.
Under the floorboard beneath my desk.
I looked at Ortiz.
She understood.
My mother reached for my hand.
I pulled away.
“You let me believe you abandoned me.”
“I know.”
“You let me hate you.”
“I know.”
“You could have told me.”
“If I told you, they would have killed you.”
“Who?”
My mother looked toward the door.
“The person who ordered Graham to silence you.”
Before she could say the name, the motel lights went out.
Ortiz drew her weapon.
A gunshot cracked through the wall.
Glass exploded beside my head.
My mother screamed.
Ortiz shoved me to the floor.
Another shot.
Then silence.
We waited.
Nothing.
Ortiz moved toward the window.
A car accelerated outside.
My mother was crying.
I crawled toward her.
“Who?”
She gripped my sleeve.
“You have to listen to me.”
“Who ordered it?”
Her eyes met mine.
Then she said the name.
“Daniel Cross.”
I froze.
“The dead man?”
“He isn't dead.”
“I know.”
My mother shook her head.
“No. You don't understand.”
She pulled a photograph from her coat.
It showed Daniel Cross standing beside a younger Graham.
Between them was another man.
A man I recognized instantly.
My father.
The father I had been told died before I was born.
The father whose face existed only in one faded photograph.
He was alive.
And written across the back were four words.
HE STARTED ALL OF THIS.
My mother whispered, “Your father has been alive for twenty-six years.”
I couldn't speak.
Outside, tires screamed against wet pavement.
Then my phone buzzed again.
A new message appeared.
A photograph.
A man standing in a dark room.
Older now.
Gray-haired.
Looking directly into the camera.
The message underneath contained only five words.
COME FIND YOUR REAL FATHER.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The Man I Had Mourned Since Childhood Was Waiting Somewhere in the City, and He Knew Why Everyone Had Lied to Me
The Night the Locked Door Opened and Everything I Thought I Knew About My Family Changed
Part 4 of 20
