Chapter 13 - THE NIGHT OF THE CRASH
The investigation into my father’s death reopened officially.
His car had been destroyed years ago, but photographs and mechanical reports remained in the evidence archive.
A new examination found inconsistencies.
The steering failure had been listed as damage caused by the crash.
Experts now believed it occurred beforehand.
Victor Sloane became the most wanted man in the county.
His photograph appeared on every local news station.
Police searched cabins, warehouses, and former Caldwell properties.
He seemed to have disappeared.
Then I received a package at my engineering office.
There was no return address.
Inside was my father’s old wristwatch.
I recognized the cracked leather band.
The watch had never been recovered from the accident.
Beneath it was a handwritten note.
YOUR FATHER WAS ALIVE AFTER THE CRASH.
I called Mercer immediately.
The package was collected for fingerprints.
A postal stamp showed it had been sent from Sacramento.
Security footage captured a man wearing a baseball cap.
Facial recognition could not identify him.
That evening, another message arrived.
It included a photograph.
My father was sitting beside the wrecked car.
Blood covered his shirt, but his eyes were open.
A figure stood behind him.
The message read.
ELEANOR DID NOT DELIVER THE FINAL BLOW.
I stared at the image.
Maya stood beside me.
“Someone wants you to keep looking.”
“Victor.”
“Or someone trying to control the investigation.”
The background of the photograph showed a road marker.
I enlarged it.
A faded number was visible.
Mercer identified the crash location.
Investigators returned to the ravine.
They searched the area with ground-penetrating radar.
Near the old road, they discovered a buried metal case.
Inside were photographs, a bloodstained jacket, and a small digital recorder.
The recorder contained Victor’s confession.
He described damaging the steering system.
He followed my father after the crash.
When he climbed into the ravine, Thomas was conscious.
My father begged him to take the evidence to the police.
Victor almost agreed.
Then another vehicle arrived.
Someone climbed down the slope.
Victor never said the person’s name.
The recording captured my father’s voice.
“You followed me for eleven years.”
A woman answered.
“And you never learned when to stop.”
The voice did not belong to Eleanor.
I listened again.
It was familiar.
Older.
Softer.
Then I remembered where I had heard it.
The woman had attended my father’s funeral.
She had stood beside me while I cried.
She had introduced me to Adrian two years later.
Her name was Margaret Caldwell.
May you like
Adrian’s aunt.
The same woman who sat at the dinner table and watched him strike me.
