Then a man's voice whispered:
"You should have burned the letter."
Richard's blood ran cold.
"You know about it?"
"We know everything."
The call ended.
Richard stared at the phone.
For the first time in years, he understood something.
He had never been protecting the neighborhood.
He had been protecting himself from remembering.
Malik found the notebook in his father's box.
Most of it was filled with ordinary things.
Training notes.
Names.
Dates.
Lists.
Then, halfway through, the writing changed.
Shorter.
Sharper.
Almost coded.
Malik read one entry.
**R.W. — contacted.**
Another:
**D.C. knows more than he admits.**
Another:
**Reed believes the problem is inside the chain.**
Malik stopped.
He looked at the initials.
R.W.
Richard Whitmore.
D.C.
David Cole.
He turned another page.
At the bottom was a sentence.
**If I disappear, don't trust the first story.**
Malik closed the notebook.
Angela walked into the room.
"What are you doing?"
"Reading Dad's notes."
She saw his face.
"What did you find?"
Malik handed her the notebook.
Angela read silently.
Then she sat down.
"Mom."
"I don't know."
"You knew something was wrong."
"I knew he was worried."
"You never told me."
"You were nine."
"I'm sixteen now."
"I know."
"I deserve the truth."
Angela looked at him for a long moment.
"Yes."
She took a breath.
"The night before your father died, he came home late."
"What happened?"
"He was bleeding."
Malik stared at her.
"Bleeding?"
"He said he'd been in an accident."
"Did you believe him?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because your father was a terrible liar."
Malik almost laughed.