Chapter 9: The Memory They Buried
The photograph slipped from my fingers.
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
The boy beside Matthew had my face.
Not just similar.
Mine.
The same crooked smile I saw in photographs from childhood. The same small scar beneath my chin. The same dark hair my mother used to complain was impossible to comb.
But I had been six years old when that photograph was taken.
And I had spent twenty-five years believing I had never been inside that house.
“Thomas,” Michael said softly.
I looked at him.
“That's me.””
“Yes.””
“Why was I there?””
He looked toward the emergency exit Richard had disappeared through.
“Because you were the reason he set the fire.””
Evelyn shook her head.
“No.””
I turned toward her.
“Then tell me.””
She was crying again.
“I can't.””
“You can.””
“I promised Margaret.””
“She’s dead.””
Evelyn flinched.
I stepped closer.
“You don't get to protect her anymore.””
Her voice trembled.
“She made me promise that if you ever remembered, I would tell you everything.””
“And?””
“I was hoping you never would.””
Michael looked at her.
“That was always your problem.””
Evelyn turned on him.
“You weren't there.””
“I was.””
“You ran.””
“I went for help.””
“You left him.””
Michael's expression broke.
“I went for the police.””
“You left him with her!””
I looked between them.
“With who?””
Neither spoke.
Then Genevieve appeared at the end of the corridor.
She had left Noah with Arthur.
“Dad?””
I held up the photograph.
“Do you know who this is?””
She looked at it.
Her face went pale.
“That's you.””
“I know.””
“No.””
She shook her head.
“That's impossible.””
“I've seen the same face in our family albums.””
“That photograph doesn't exist.””
“What?””
“Mom destroyed them.””
“Why?””
Genevieve slowly approached.
“Because the pictures made you sick.””
“Sick?””
“After Matthew died.””
My stomach tightened.
“You knew?””
“I knew there had been another child in the photographs.””
“Another child?””
“You.””
I stared at her.
“I was six.””
“Yes.””
“Why did Mom erase me?””
“She didn't erase you.””
Genevieve lowered her voice.
“Dad, you were standing beside Matthew when the fire started.””
The words came slowly.
“You were there when he died.””
I closed my eyes.
And suddenly—
I heard a child's scream.
Not from the hotel.
From somewhere buried inside me.
I was six.
The lake house was dark.
Smoke crawled along the ceiling.
Matthew was crying.
I was holding his hand.
Someone was pounding against a locked door.
A man was shouting.
My father.
No.
Richard.
Then another voice.
My mother.
“Thomas! Take Matthew and run!””
I remembered pulling Matthew toward the hallway.
I remembered a door.
I remembered reaching for the handle.
Locked.
Then I remembered something else.
A hand on my shoulder.
Someone dragging me backward.
A man's face.
I opened my eyes.
Richard.
“Dad?””
Genevieve was holding my arm.
I realized I was on the floor.
Michael was kneeling beside me.
“What did you see?”” he asked.
I looked at him.
“Richard.””
Michael went still.
“You remember?””
“Parts.””
“What parts?””
“The door.””
His face changed.
“The back door?””
“Yes.””
“Was it locked?””
“Yes.””
Michael closed his eyes.
“That's what I thought.””
I looked at him.
“What did you think?””
“That Richard locked it from the outside.””
Evelyn shook her head.
“No.””
I turned.
“You said you didn't know.””
“I didn't.””
“But you told me you tried to open it.””
“I did.””
“Then how was it locked?””
She looked at Michael.
He answered for her.
“Because Richard didn't lock it.””
My stomach dropped.
“Who did?””
Michael's silence was answer enough.
I looked at Evelyn.
“You.””
She began crying.
“I didn't know.””
“You locked the door?””
“I thought I was protecting you.””
“You locked the door with my son inside?””
“I thought Richard was behind me.””
The anger came back.
“What does that mean?””
Evelyn took a shaky breath.
“Richard told me Matthew was going to be moved.””
“Moved where?””
“Out of the house.””
“By whom?””
“I was supposed to take him.””
“But you didn't.””
“No.””
“Why?””
“Because I found you.””
I frowned.
“What?””
“You were inside.””
“I was six.””
“You were unconscious.””
I felt my throat tighten.
Evelyn continued.
“You had been struck on the head.””
“By Richard?””
“Yes.””
“And Matthew?””
“He was hiding.””
“Where?””
“In the pantry.””
I closed my eyes.
Another memory surfaced.
Tiny hands.
A wooden airplane.
A whispered voice.
“Daddy?””
I remembered opening my eyes.
I remembered seeing Matthew crouched behind boxes.
I remembered crawling toward him.
Then—
a woman pulling me backward.
Evelyn.
She had grabbed me.
“Why?”” I asked.
She looked at me.
“Because the ceiling was falling.””
“And Matthew?””
“I tried to get him.””
“But you couldn't.””
“I couldn't.””
I shook my head.
“That doesn't explain the locked door.””
“No.””
“Tell me.””
Her tears fell faster.
“I locked it.””
The words cut through the hallway.
“I locked it because I thought Richard was coming back.””
“Why would that protect us?””
“I thought if the door was locked, he couldn't get inside.””
“But he was already inside.””
“I didn't know.””
“And Matthew?””
“I thought he was with me.””
My voice became quiet.
“You left him behind.””
“I was looking for you.””
“You left my son.””
“I didn't know!””
She screamed.
Everyone fell silent.
Evelyn covered her mouth.
“I didn't know he had gone back.””
I stared at her.
“Back?””
She nodded.
“When the fire started, Matthew ran back for his airplane.””
I looked down at the photograph.
The toy plane.
The one sitting beside him.
“He went back inside?””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
“Because he thought you were still there.””
My knees weakened.
“He went looking for me?””
“Yes.””
The pain was unbearable.
Matthew had been four years old.
And he had run into a burning house because he thought his older brother was trapped inside.
Except I had already been pulled out.
By someone.
Someone I couldn't yet remember.
“Who saved me?””
Michael answered.
“I did.””
I looked at him.
“You?””
“I found you near the back door.””
“What happened?””
“I dragged you through a broken window.””
“Why don't I remember?””
“Because Richard hit you again.””
My stomach turned.
“Why?””
“Because he saw me.””
I stared at my brother.
“You knew me.””
“Yes.””
“Then why did you disappear?””
Michael looked toward the floor.
“Because your father made me disappear.””
I frowned.
“Why?””
“Because he believed I caused the fire.””
“He believed that?””
“He had no choice.””
“What does that mean?””
Michael stood.
“After the fire, Richard told him I was responsible.””
“Why would he believe him?””
“Because Richard had evidence.””
“What evidence?””
“Photographs.””
My heart stopped.
“The photograph?””
“No.””
Michael pointed toward the folder.
“Those documents.””
Daniel opened the ledger again.
“There’s something here you need to see.””
He turned to a page near the back.
A handwritten transaction.
*Payment to M. Vance — $250,000.*
I stared.
“That's me?””
“No,” Michael said.
“Then who?””
He swallowed.
“Me.””
I looked at him.
“I never paid you.””
“You did.””
“When?””
“Before the fire.””
I frowned.
“I was six.””
“You weren't.””
The room went silent.
“You weren't six when the payment happened.””
Michael looked at me.
“You were twenty-two.””
My breath caught.
“What?””
“You aren't remembering the night twenty-five years ago.””
I stared.
“That was twenty-five years ago.””
“Yes.””
“I was thirty-seven.””
“No.””
I felt dizzy.
“I'm sixty-two.””
“Yes.””
“Then I was thirty-seven.””
“Not when the fire happened.””
He pointed to the photograph.
“The photograph was taken twelve years before the fire.””
I looked down.
The date.
1990.
My blood froze.
Matthew had been four.
And I had been twenty-two.
The lake house fire happened twelve years later.
I hadn't been six.
I had been thirty-four.
The memories flooding my mind weren't my childhood.
They were broken memories from adulthood.
My brain had merged years together after the trauma.
I looked at Genevieve.
“How old was Matthew when he died?””
“Sixteen.””
I recoiled.
“No.””
“Yes.””
“That picture…”
“Taken twelve years before his death.””
My entire understanding of the story collapsed.
Matthew hadn't been a little boy when the fire happened.
He had been sixteen.
The face I remembered wasn't a four-year-old.
It was a teenager.
My son.
My memories had lied to me.
Or someone had made them lie.
Then I remembered the final image.
Matthew standing in the hallway.
Older.
Tall.
Holding the wooden airplane he had built as a child.
Looking at me.
“Dad?””
I stumbled backward.
“I remember.””
Michael grabbed my shoulder.
“What?””
“Matthew wasn't the target.””
Michael nodded.
“I know.””
“He found something.””
“Yes.””
“The ledger.””
“Yes.””
I turned toward Daniel.
“What did he find?””
Daniel flipped through the documents.
“The accounts.””
“No.””
I shook my head.
“He found a name.””
“Whose?””
I looked at Michael.
“Richard's?””
He shook his head.
“No.””
“Then whose?””
Michael hesitated.
“Yours.””
My stomach dropped.
“What?””
“You weren't just Richard's partner.””
“What?””
“You were the one who discovered the money.””
I stared at him.
“I would remember.””
“You did.””
Daniel pointed to another page.
“This signature is yours.””
I looked down.
My signature.
My handwriting.
My initials.
A transfer authorization dated two days before the fire.
Then I saw the recipient.
*Evelyn Kensington.*
I looked up.
She was crying.
“Thomas…”
“You received money from me.””
“Yes.””
“How much?””
She couldn't answer.
Daniel did.
“Four million dollars.””
The exact amount in the secret account.
The same account Genevieve discovered.
I stared at Evelyn.
“You were paid before the fire.””
“Yes.””
“For what?””
“To help me disappear.””
I shook my head.
“Who wanted me gone?””
Evelyn looked at Michael.
Then at me.
“Your father.””
I froze.
“My father was dead by then.””
She whispered:
“He wasn't.””
The room went silent.
“Your father died six years ago,” I said.
“Yes.””
“But he was alive twenty-five years ago.””
“Yes.””
“And he ordered the fire?””
Evelyn nodded.
“Because he discovered what Matthew had found.””
“What did Matthew find?””
Evelyn looked at me with tears streaming down her face.
“Proof that your father had been stealing from Vance Development for decades.””
I stared.
“And the money?””
“Was your money.””
“Why was it in your account?””
“Because you gave it to me.””
“To do what?””
“To protect Matthew.””
I looked at her.
“Did you?””
She closed her eyes.
“I tried.””
Before I could respond, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A distorted voice whispered:
“Thomas.””
“Who is this?””
A pause.
Then:
“You're looking in the wrong direction.””
“Who are you?””
The voice laughed softly.
“Ask your brother why he never told you the truth about your father.””
I looked at Michael.
He had gone completely pale.
“Michael?””
The caller continued.
“Ask him who really started the fire.””
The line went dead.
Michael stared at me.
I stepped closer.
“Who started the fire?””
He said nothing.
“Michael.””
His eyes filled with tears.
Then he whispered:
“Your father.””
I shook my head.
“You said Richard.””
“I lied.””
“Why?””
“Because your father ordered it.””
Michael wiped his face.
“And Richard wasn't working for him.””
I stared.
“Then who was Richard?””
Michael looked toward Evelyn.
“He was our father's son.””
My heart stopped.
“His son?””
“Half-brother.””
The word barely left his mouth.
“He wasn't Richard Hale.””
I felt the world tilt again.
“He was another Vance.””
Michael nodded.
“His real name was—”
The hotel fire alarm suddenly screamed again.
This time, smoke began pouring from beneath the hallway door.
And from somewhere downstairs, Noah screamed my name.
Then a man's voice shouted:
“THOMAS! GET AWAY FROM YOUR BROTHER!””
I ran toward the stairs.
May you like
Because I recognized that voice.
It was my father's.
