Chapter 6: The Voice From the Past

I drove home with one thought repeating in my head.

Don’t trust her.

But which her?

My mother?

My father?

Both?

The worst part was that I no longer knew.

When I arrived home, Amelia was sitting at the kitchen table.

Not the floor.

The table.

Biscuit sat beside her.

She looked up.

“Did you find out?””

The question surprised me.

“What?””

She looked down.

“About Mom.””

I walked closer.

“Why would you ask that?””

“Because Grandma knows.””

My heart tightened.

“What does she know?””

Amelia hesitated.

Then she pulled out another piece of paper.

“Daddy…”

I took it.

It was a drawing.

A child’s drawing.

A picture of our family.

Me.

Nora.

Amelia.

Biscuit.

And in the corner was a woman standing alone.

My mother.

Above her was written:

*Grandma said Mom chose to leave.*

Below it, Amelia had written:

*But Mom said she loved me.*

I looked at my daughter.

“When did Mom say that?””

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t remember.””

“What do you mean?””

“Sometimes I hear her voice.””

I froze.

“Amelia…”

“She used to sing to me.””

My anger softened.

“Sweetheart, that’s a memory.””

She shook her head.

“No.””

The certainty in her voice stopped me.

“She talked to me.””

I sat beside her.

“When?””

“After the accident.””

The room became silent.

“What did she say?””

Amelia looked terrified.

“I’m not supposed to tell.””

“Who said that?””

She whispered:

“Grandma.””

My hands curled into fists.

“What did Grandma say?””

“She said if I told anyone, Daddy would leave too.””

The words broke something inside me.

My daughter had been carrying this alone.

For seven years.

“Amelia.””

She looked at me.

“I’m not leaving you.””

She started crying.

“I tried to tell you.””

I pulled her into my arms.

“I know.””

“No, Daddy.””

Her voice cracked.

“I tried the night Mom died.””

I froze.

“What?””

She buried her face against me.

“I heard her.””

My breathing stopped.

“What did you hear?””

“She was calling my name.””

I couldn’t move.

“She said, ‘Amelia, don’t let Grandma take the box.’”

The room went cold.

“The box?””

Amelia nodded.

“She said Grandma would know where it was.””

I stood slowly.

“What box?””

“I don’t know.””

She wiped her tears.

“Mom sounded scared.””

Seven years.

Seven years, and my daughter had been carrying the memory of her dying mother calling for help.

And nobody believed her.

Nobody except maybe Biscuit.

Because suddenly I remembered something.

The key.

The brass key Amelia found.

I ran upstairs.

The key was still in my pocket.

I returned to the kitchen.

“Where did you find this?””

“In Grandma’s room.””

I turned it over.

A small engraving was hidden on the metal.

A letter.

N.

Nora.

My wife had a key hidden in my mother’s room.

I grabbed my jacket.

“Daddy?””

I looked at Amelia.

“I need to check something.””

“Are you going to leave?””

The question nearly destroyed me.

“No.””

I knelt beside her.

“Never.””

That night, I went back to the cabin.

The key opened a small wooden box hidden beneath a loose floorboard.

Inside were documents.

A flash drive.

And one final letter.

This one was dated the night Nora died.

Gabriel,

If you found this, then they failed to stop you.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything.

I wanted to protect Amelia.

I wanted to protect you.

But I need you to know the truth.

Your mother didn’t cause the accident.

But she knows who did.

I stopped reading.

The next line was worse.

And your father helped cover it up.

I dropped the letter.

Because suddenly, the question wasn’t whether my parents lied.

It was how deep the lie went.

Then the flash drive caught my attention.

There was only one file.

One audio recording.

Created at 2:04 a.m.

The night Nora died.

I pressed play.

Static filled the room.

Then I heard a voice.

A voice I hadn’t heard in seven years.

Nora.

Weak.

Terrified.

“Gabriel… if you’re hearing this, please listen.””

I covered my mouth.

Her voice continued.

“Someone in your family knows what happened.””

A pause.

A breath.

Then her final words:

“Your father didn’t save me because he was protecting the person who tried to kill me.””

The recording ended.

And behind me, the cabin door opened.

I turned.

My father stood there.

His face was pale.

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“Gabriel… you were never supposed to hear that.””