PART2
Scott refused to answer my calls for two days.
On the third day, I drove to his apartment.
He lived in a small building above a laundromat, where the hallway smelled of detergent and stale cigarette smoke. His car was parked outside, although he had told Mom he was working late.
I knocked twice.
No answer.
I knocked again.
“Scott, I know you’re in there.”
I heard footsteps.
The door opened a few inches.
His face appeared in the gap.
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’ve been busy avoiding me since I mentioned Daniel Whitaker.”
His expression changed.
“Keep your voice down.”
He opened the door and let me inside.
The apartment was cluttered with empty food containers, unpaid bills, and clothes scattered across a chair. A television played quietly in the corner.
Scott looked exhausted.
For a moment, I felt sorry for him.
Then I remembered Mom crying over the missing watch.
“Tell me what you know,” I said.
He rubbed his face.
“I told you. Dad mentioned Daniel years ago.”
“That’s not all.”
“Jenny—”
“Dad left a ledger in Locker 214. It contains records of money transferred through the mill. Daniel disappeared the day after the date written in Dad’s note. And there’s a photograph of Robert Vale’s wife with Dad and Daniel.”
Scott went completely still.
I watched him carefully.
“You know something.”
He turned away.
“I didn’t know about the ledger.”
“But you know something about the people involved.”
He remained silent.
I stepped closer.
“Scott, Dad is gone. You can’t ask him questions anymore. Mom has spent her entire life believing he was simply a hardworking man who loved his family. Now we’re finding out that he carried something painful for forty-five years. Whatever you know, we need to understand it.”
Scott sat on the edge of the couch.
For several seconds, he stared at the floor.
Then he spoke.
“When I was twenty-one, Dad took me to lunch.”
I blinked.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just listen.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“It was shortly before I got into my first serious debt. I had borrowed money from some people I shouldn’t have borrowed from. Dad found out, and he was furious. But instead of yelling, he took me to that little diner near the highway.”
I remembered the place. Dad used to take us there for pancakes.
Scott continued.
“He told me that he’d made a mistake when he was younger. He said one mistake had nearly destroyed somebody else’s life, and he’d spent decades trying to make sure the damage didn’t spread.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What mistake?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. I asked him if it had something to do with the mill, and he told me never to ask about Daniel Whitaker.”
“Those were his exact words?”
Scott nodded.
“He said, ‘Some names belong to a time when good people were forced to make terrible choices.’ Then he told me that if anyone ever came asking about Daniel, I should tell them I knew nothing.”
I stared at my brother.
“And you never asked him why?”
“I was young. I thought he was talking about some stupid workplace dispute.”
Scott stood and walked toward the window.
“Then, about six months before Dad died, I visited him one afternoon. He was sitting at the kitchen table with an old envelope. He looked frightened, Jen. I’d never seen him like that.”
“What was in the envelope?”
“I don’t know. He put it away when he saw me.”
“Did he mention Daniel?”
Scott nodded.
“He asked me if I remembered what he’d told me about the diner. I said yes. Then he told me that some things had a way of coming back when a man was too old to run from them.”
I felt tears sting my eyes.
Dad had known his time was running out.
He had tried to prepare someone in the family for what might come after him.
But Scott had been so wrapped up in his own problems that he hadn’t understood.
“What happened to the envelope?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did Dad say anything else?”
Scott hesitated.
Then he said, “He told me that if I ever found the watch, I should bring it to Mom.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
I stared at him.
“What?”
Scott’s eyes filled with tears.
“He said that if anything happened to him, the watch belonged to her. He told me never to let it leave the family.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
“You knew that,” I whispered.
Scott nodded.
“And you sold it anyway.”
He covered his face.
“I know.”
“You knew Dad had specifically told you to protect it, and you sold it for forty dollars.”
“I was desperate.”
“You were drunk.”
He lowered his hands.
“Yes.”
The admission hung between us.
For the first time since the funeral, Scott didn’t offer an excuse.
He didn’t blame his circumstances.
He didn’t say the watch was worthless.
He simply stood there, looking like a man who had finally seen the ugliness of his own choices.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I wanted to believe him.
But apologies were easy for Scott.
Changing was harder.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the diner when I called you?”
He swallowed.
“Because I was scared.”
“Of what?”
He looked at me.
“Because Dad told me that if the truth ever came out, someone might come looking for the ledger.”
I stared at him.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Scott, this is serious.”
“I know!”
His voice broke.
“I know, Jen. I know what I did. I know I hurt Mom. But when you told me about the ledger, all I could think about was Dad sitting at that table, telling me that some people would do anything to keep certain things buried.”
I took a slow breath.
“Then you should help us find out why.”
Scott shook his head.
“What if the truth destroys everything?”
I looked at him.
“Everything has already been destroyed for someone, Scott. Daniel disappeared. Dad carried the secret until he died. Mom has spent forty-five years not knowing what her husband was hiding.”
I paused.
“We can’t keep protecting a lie just because the truth might hurt.”
Scott sat down again.
For a long time, he didn’t speak.
Then he reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, worn notebook.
“I found this in Dad’s garage after the funeral,” he said. “I was going to throw it away, but something stopped me.”
He handed it to me.
The notebook contained old measurements, shopping lists, and reminders about household repairs.
Near the back, however, was a page filled with dates and names.
Daniel Whitaker.
Robert Vale.
North River Steel Works.
And one final entry.
October 12 — Patricia. Find her before they do.
I looked at Scott.
“Who’s Patricia?”
“Daniel’s wife.”
I checked the date.
October 12, 2026.
Two days before Dad died.
My hands began to tremble.
Dad had written this only days before his death.
He had been trying to find Patricia.
And the note suggested that he believed someone else might be looking for her too.
I took a photograph of the page and sent it to Mr. Cole.
His response came less than a minute later.
Do not contact anyone connected to the case until we have reviewed the records. I believe I know where Patricia Whitaker may be living.
Then another message appeared.
There is something else you need to know.
I stared at the screen.
Robert Vale died in 2019.
I looked at the notebook again.
Dad had been trying to find a woman whose husband disappeared forty-five years earlier.
He had been searching for her just days before he died.
And whatever he wanted to tell her, he had never managed to do it.
