Chapter 6: Ten Minutes
The message stayed on my screen.
*YOUR FATHER HAS TEN MINUTES LEFT.*
I read it again.
Then again.
My father.
Alive.
Somewhere in that workshop.
And apparently running out of time.
Claire grabbed my wrist.
“Marcus, don't go.””
I looked at her.
“You've spent thirteen years telling me what I needed to know.””
“I was trying to keep you alive.””
“You should have tried telling me the truth.””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Please.””
I pulled my hand free.
“Maya is in a hospital surrounded by security. She's safer here than anywhere.””
“You don't know that.””
“I know someone wants me at that workshop.””
“And that's exactly why you shouldn't go.””
A nurse stepped into the room.
“Everything okay?””
I slipped my phone into my pocket.
“Yes.””
Claire stared at me.
She knew I was lying.
This time, I didn't care.
I crouched beside Maya.
“Baby, I'm going somewhere for a little while.””
Her eyes widened.
“Where?””
“I need to find something.””
“Is it Grandpa?””
I hesitated.
“Yes.””
Her face crumpled.
“Dad, don't.””
I took her hand.
“I need you to listen to me.””
She nodded.
“No matter what happens tonight, none of this is your fault.””
“But—”
“Nothing.””
I looked directly into her eyes.
“You did nothing wrong.””
She nodded slowly.
Then she asked the question that broke me.
“Are you coming back?””
I squeezed her hand.
“I am.””
I stood.
Claire blocked the doorway.
“You can't just leave.””
“Watch me.””
“I know that house.””
“Then tell me where it is.””
She went silent.
I waited.
“Claire.””
Her shoulders dropped.
“I'll drive you.””
“No.””
Her expression hardened.
“You don't know the road.””
“I'll find it.””
“You don't understand.””
“Then explain.””
She looked toward Maya.
“She can't hear this.””
I glanced at the nurse.
“Take care of her.””
The nurse nodded.
Claire stepped into the hallway.
I followed.
For the first time in years, she looked older than me.
Tired.
Not because of age.
Because of carrying something heavy for too long.
“I'll tell you everything on the way,” she said.
“Start now.””
She drew a breath.
“Your father wasn't just a contractor.””
“I know.””
“No. You don't.””
She leaned against the wall.
“He moved money for people who didn't want their names attached to it.””
I frowned.
“Money?””
“Construction contracts. Shell companies. Property transfers. Fake invoices.””
I stared at her.
“How did you know?””
“I found his files.””
“When?””
“When I was nineteen.””
“And that's why he paid you to leave?””
“He didn't pay me.””
Her eyes dropped.
“He threatened me.””
I felt my jaw tighten.
“What did he threaten?””
“To hurt you.””
The hallway seemed to narrow.
“He said he'd destroy your reputation, your career, anything he had to.””
“Why?””
“Because I found a list.””
“What list?””
“Names.””
“Whose?””
“People he worked for.””
She looked at me.
“People who were willing to hurt anyone who exposed them.””
I thought about the message.
*STOP ASKING QUESTIONS ABOUT MAYA.*
My stomach turned.
“You think those people are still around.””
“I know some of them are.””
“Which ones?””
“I don't know.””
“You don't know?””
“Marcus, thirteen years ago, your father disappeared after one of the girls connected to his operation vanished.””
“The girl in the article.””
Claire nodded.
“She was six.””
I stared at the floor.
The same age Maya had been when she first described the old house.
“The police never found her.””
“No.””
“And my father was questioned.””
“Yes.””
“Then why didn't they arrest him?””
“Because he had an alibi.””
“Where?””
Claire looked at me.
“Your house.””
I stopped walking.
“My house?””
“You were seventeen. Your mother was still alive. You told police your father was with you that evening.””
A memory slammed into me.
Rain.
A late-night knock.
My father standing in the doorway.
Soaked.
Angry.
Telling me not to speak to anyone.
I had forgotten.
Or maybe I had forced myself to forget.
“He wasn't with me all night,” I whispered.
“No.””
“Why did I say he was?””
“Because he asked you to.””
I looked at her.
“And I believed him.””
“You were a child.””
I shook my head.
“I was old enough to know something was wrong.””
Claire reached for my arm.
“Marcus, you were seventeen.””
I pulled away.
“What happened to the girl?””
“We don't know.””
“And what does that have to do with Maya?””
Claire's voice became very quiet.
“Your father believed Maya had seen something.””
“What?””
“The girl.””
I stared at her.
“You think Maya witnessed what happened?””
“I think she saw where the girl was taken.””
My heart hammered.
“But Maya was six.””
“Exactly.””
“How could she remember?””
“Children remember things differently.””
We reached the parking garage.
I stopped beside my truck.
Claire grabbed my sleeve.
“Wait.””
I looked at her.
“There was one more thing.””
“What?””
“The night your father supposedly died, he called me.””
My entire body went rigid.
“When?””
“Three hours after the accident.””
“You're saying he called you after he died?””
“Yes.””
“What did he say?””
Claire's eyes filled.
“He said, ‘Tell Marcus I'm sorry.’”
I couldn't breathe.
“What else?””
“He said he was going underground.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because he made me promise.””
“You kept that promise for thirteen years?””
She nodded.
“Until Maya met him.””
I stared through the windshield.
Somewhere beyond the city, my dead father was waiting.
Or someone wanted me to believe he was.
“Stay here,” I said.
Claire shook her head.
“No.””
“I'm going alone.””
“He expects that.””
“So?””
“That means it's a trap.””
I looked at her.
“Everything tonight is a trap.””
I got inside the truck.
Claire opened the passenger door.
“I’m coming.””
“No.””
“Then you'll have to drag me out.””
I stared at her.
She crossed her arms.
“I'm not letting you walk into the place where this started without knowing what you're walking into.””
I started the engine.
“Fine.””
The drive took forty minutes.
The city disappeared first.
Then the houses.
Then the streetlights.
The road narrowed until trees crowded both sides.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally Claire pointed ahead.
“There.””
I slowed.
A narrow dirt road disappeared into the woods.
At the end stood a weather-beaten wooden building.
The workshop.
The windows were dark.
I parked fifty yards away.
“Why are we stopping?””
“Because if someone is watching, I don't want them to know how we arrived.””
Claire looked at me.
“Smart.””
We got out.
The night air smelled of wet earth and pine.
I checked my phone.
Seven minutes had passed.
Six.
The workshop door stood open.
That was worse than seeing it locked.
Someone wanted me to enter.
Claire caught my arm.
“Marcus.””
I looked at her.
“You don't have to do this.””
“Yes, I do.””
“Why?””
I looked toward the open door.
“Because for thirteen years, I've been grieving someone who may have been alive the entire time.””
We walked inside.
Dust covered the old workbench.
Rusty tools hung from the wall.
A single bulb swung from the ceiling.
The room looked untouched.
But then I noticed footprints.
Fresh ones.
They led toward a second door.
I followed them.
Claire grabbed my shoulder.
“Wait.””
Too late.
The second door slammed shut behind us.
The room went black.
Claire screamed.
Then a voice came from somewhere in the darkness.
“Marcus?””
I froze.
That voice.
Older.
Raspy.
But unmistakable.
My father's voice.
“Dad?””
A light clicked on.
He stood at the far end of the room.
Older.
Thinner.
Gray-haired.
Black glasses.
Alive.
My knees nearly gave out.
He looked at me for several seconds.
Then his eyes moved to Claire.
“You brought her.””
Claire stepped forward.
“You said ten minutes.””
He checked his watch.
“Then we have four left.””
I stared at him.
“You're alive.””
He nodded.
“I know.””
“Why did you let me bury you?””
His face tightened.
“Because I had no choice.””
“That's a lie.””
He looked at Claire.
“She didn't tell you?””
“Tell me what?””
My father slowly removed his glasses.
His eyes were tired.
Almost defeated.
“The girl who disappeared seventeen years ago.””
He looked directly at me.
“She wasn't the only child they took.””
My blood turned cold.
“What does that mean?””
He reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph.
He held it toward me.
I stepped closer.
The photograph showed two little girls standing outside the workshop.
One was the missing child from the newspaper.
The other had long braids.
A burgundy hoodie.
And the exact same frightened eyes I had seen at my kitchen table.
Maya.
My daughter.
My father whispered:
“They came back for her because she was the only person who could identify them.””
May you like
Then the workshop lights went out again.
And from outside, a car engine roared to life.
