Chapter 4: The Man Who Held My Baby
For almost a full minute, neither Marcus nor I spoke.
The laptop sat open on the kitchen table, the audio file frozen on its final second.
My father-in-law's voice seemed to remain in the room even after the recording stopped.
Robert Carter.
The man who had stood beside Marcus at our wedding.
The man who had cried when our son was born.
The man who had kissed my forehead in the hospital and called me his daughter.
The man who had held Andre Carter in his arms while telling everyone how blessed he was to have another grandson.
I looked at my husband.
“Tell me that's not your father.””
Marcus rubbed his face.
“I know his voice.””
“Maybe it sounds like him.””
“Danielle.””
“Maybe somebody was impersonating him.””
Marcus closed his eyes.
“Stop.””
I flinched.
He immediately softened his voice.
“I'm sorry. But that's my father's voice.””
I stood and walked toward the sink.
My hands were trembling.
Robert had visited us twice during my pregnancy. He had brought baby clothes, helped Marcus install the car seat, and even paid for the nursery furniture when our original crib arrived damaged.
He had sat beside me at the hospital.
He had held my son.
And now I was hearing him connected to the night Andre died.
Marcus picked up his phone.
“I'm calling him.””
“Wait.””
“Why?””
“Because we don't know what happened.””
“We know he was there.””
“We know somebody with his voice was there.””
Marcus looked at me.
“Do you hear yourself?””
I swallowed.
He was right.
I was defending a man I barely knew because the alternative was too frightening.
Marcus dialed.
The call rang four times.
Then a familiar voice answered.
“Son?””
Marcus stared at the screen.
“Dad.””
“Everything okay?””
Marcus glanced at me.
“Where were you the night Andre Jackson died?””
Silence.
A long, uncomfortable silence.
Then Robert laughed.
“What kind of question is that?””
“Answer me.””
“Marcus, it's almost midnight.””
“Were you with Raymond Brooks?””
I watched my husband's face.
The color slowly disappeared from it.
Robert's voice changed.
“Where did you hear that name?””
Marcus gripped the phone.
“Were you?””
“Listen to me. Whatever you think you found, you need to leave it alone.””
Marcus stood so quickly his chair scraped backward.
“That's not an answer!””
“Your mother is asleep. I don't want to wake her.””
“Dad, did you know Andre?””
Another pause.
Then Robert said something I would never forget.
“I knew enough to know he was going to ruin everybody's life.””
The call ended.
Marcus stared at his phone.
I stepped toward him.
“Call him back.””
He shook his head.
“No.””
“Marcus—”
“He knows.””
He looked at me.
“My father knows we have that recording.””
His phone buzzed.
A message appeared.
*Robert Carter: Come to the house tomorrow morning. Alone. We need to talk about your wife.*
Marcus read it twice.
Then he turned the phone toward me.
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Why would he say that?””
Marcus put the phone away.
“Because whatever happened to Andre, he thinks you're part of it.””
The following morning, Marcus's mother called.
Patricia Carter had always been warm toward me. She was the sort of woman who remembered birthdays, sent handwritten thank-you cards, and kept photographs of every family gathering.
She had been especially excited about our baby.
When she arrived at our house, she carried a small knitted blanket.
“I made this for Andre,” she said.
I thanked her.
She looked toward the living room.
“Where's Marcus?””
“He's getting dressed.””
Patricia lowered her voice.
“Did something happen between you two?””
I hesitated.
“Why?””
She placed the blanket on the couch.
“Robert came home last night furious. He wouldn't tell me why. He kept asking whether Marcus had called him.””
I felt my heartbeat quicken.
“Did your husband ever mention someone named Raymond Brooks?””
Her face changed.
It was small.
A tightening around the eyes.
But I noticed.
“Why are you asking me that?””
I stepped closer.
“Please. Did you know him?””
Patricia looked toward the hallway.
Then she whispered, “Where did you hear that name?””
My blood ran cold.
Before I could answer, Marcus entered the room.
“Mom.””
She turned.
“Good morning, sweetheart.””
He hugged her, but his eyes remained fixed on her face.
“Did Dad tell you about the call?””
Patricia nodded.
“He said you were asking questions about something that happened years ago.””
“Did he tell you what happened?””
“No.””
Marcus looked at me.
I reached into my pocket and removed the folded copy of Andre's letter.
“Your husband was connected to Andre's death.””
Patricia took a step backward.
“That's impossible.””
Marcus's voice was quiet.
“Mom, I heard Dad on a recording.””
She shook her head.
“No. There has to be some mistake.””
“His voice was unmistakable.””
Patricia sat down.
For several seconds, she stared at the blanket she had brought.
Then she spoke.
“Robert told me he had helped someone with a business deal years ago. He said there had been a terrible accident.””
“What kind of accident?”” Marcus asked.
“He never explained.””
“Was Raymond Brooks involved?””
Patricia nodded slowly.
“He mentioned that name once.””
I sat beside her.
“Did he mention Andre?””
She looked at me.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
“Yes.””
The room went silent.
Patricia pressed a hand against her chest.
“Robert said a young man had been asking questions. He said the boy was dangerous because he knew too much.””
I felt sick.
“What did he do?””
Patricia shook her head.
“He said he handled it.””
Marcus stood.
“Handled what?””
“I don't know!””
Her voice cracked.
“I swear to you, I don't know!””
She covered her face.
Then she said something that changed everything.
“Robert came home that night with blood on his shirt.””
Marcus stopped breathing.
Patricia didn't leave for another hour.
She told us Robert had claimed the blood came from a workplace accident. She had believed him because he worked in construction and frequently came home with cuts and bruises.
But there was something else.
The next morning, she had found a small envelope in his jacket.
Inside was a photograph.
A photograph of Andre.
Patricia said she had confronted Robert, but he had taken it from her and warned her never to mention the boy again.
“Why didn't you go to the police?”” Marcus asked.
She began crying harder.
“Because he told me I would lose you.””
Marcus stared at her.
“What?””
“He said if I told anybody, he would make sure I never saw you again.””
I watched Marcus's expression collapse.
His mother reached for his hand.
“I was young. I was scared. I thought he had done something terrible, but I didn't know what.””
Marcus pulled his hand away.
“You let me grow up thinking he was a good man.””
“He was your father.””
“And Andre was somebody's son!””
Patricia lowered her head.
“I know.””
Marcus walked toward the window.
For a moment, he looked like a little boy who had just discovered that the person he trusted most had been lying to him.
Then Patricia reached into her handbag.
“I brought something.””
She removed a small photograph.
It showed Robert standing outside an auto repair shop.
Beside him was Raymond Brooks.
And standing slightly behind them was Andre.
On the back, someone had written a date.
The same date Andre died.
Patricia handed it to me.
“Robert kept this in his office. I took it before I came here.””
Marcus stared at the photograph.
“Why?””
“Because I think you deserve to know what happened.””
He looked at her.
“Where is Dad now?””
Patricia swallowed.
“He left early this morning.””
“Where did he go?””
She hesitated.
Then she gave us an address.
An address belonging to a small property outside the city.
Marcus looked at me.
And I knew we were going there.
That evening, after my aunt brought our son home, Marcus sat beside the bassinet.
He watched Andre sleeping.
His fingers rested gently against the blanket.
“Hey, little man,” he whispered.
I stood in the doorway.
Marcus looked up.
“I don't blame him.””
I stepped closer.
“Who?””
“Our son.””
My throat tightened.
“I know.””
He rubbed his face.
“I know I said some things when I saw that photograph. I was hurt.””
“You had every right to be hurt.””
He looked at our baby again.
“But I don't want him growing up thinking he has to carry any of this.””
I sat beside him.
“He won't.””
Marcus took my hand.
“We're going to find out what happened.””
I nodded.
Then he looked at me.
“And Danielle?””
“Yes?””
“If my father really had something to do with Andre's death, I need you to understand something.””
I squeezed his hand.
“What?””
“I won't protect him.””
For the first time since the photograph appeared on our nightstand, I believed we were standing on the same side.
But just as Marcus leaned forward to kiss our son's forehead, his phone rang.
It was Patricia.
He answered immediately.
“Mom?””
Her voice was frantic.
“Marcus, listen to me. Your father knows you're coming.””
Marcus stood.
“How?””
“I don't know. But he just called me.””
“What did he say?””
Patricia began sobbing.
“He said if you go looking for the truth, you won't like what you find.””
Then she whispered:
May you like
“He said Andre wasn't the only person who died because of him.””
And the call went dead.
