Chapter 3: The Photograph
I stared at the photograph until the screen blurred.
My mother's car.
My father.
A parking lot I didn't recognize.
And a date stamped across the bottom.
October 14, 2009.
I was two years old.
My mother had died that year.
At least, that was the story I'd been told.
A car accident.
Rainy road.
Lost control.
Nothing suspicious.
Nothing more.
I had grown up with one sentence explaining the biggest absence in my life.
Your mother was driving home when it happened.
I read the message again.
*You should ask your father what happened the night your mother died.*
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Who is this?
Before I could send it, another message arrived.
*Don't ask Vanessa. Ask Marcus.*
My heart began pounding.
I looked toward my bedroom door.
The hallway was empty.
I stood and locked it.
Then I opened the photograph again.
I zoomed in.
The image was grainy, obviously old.
Marcus stood beside a dark sedan.
His shirt was soaked.
His face looked younger, but there was no mistaking him.
Behind him was a brick building.
I recognized it.
I didn't know how.
Then it hit me.
A memory.
Not mine exactly.
Something from an old photograph I'd seen years ago.
My grandmother's house.
The brick building had been across the street.
I sat down hard on the edge of my bed.
My phone buzzed again.
*Your mother did not die the way you were told.*
I typed quickly.
Who are you?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
*Someone who was there.*
A knock came at my door.
I nearly dropped the phone.
“Aaliyah?””
My father's voice.
I locked the screen.
“Yeah?””
“Can I come in?””
I looked at the camera above my desk.
Then at the door.
“Okay.””
Marcus opened it.
He was holding two mugs.
“I made tea.””
I almost smiled.
It was such a normal thing.
The same man who had spent the last hour discovering his wife had framed me was now standing in my doorway with chamomile tea like he could somehow return the evening to normal.
He handed me a mug.
“Thanks.””
He sat in the chair beside my desk.
I remained on the bed.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “Vanessa went to her room.””
“Okay.””
“She wants some space.””
I nodded.
Marcus stared into his tea.
“She says she doesn't remember putting the necklace there.””
I looked at him.
“She remembers enough to accuse me.””
“I know.””
“Dad?””
“Yeah?””
“Do you believe me now?””
He looked up.
“Yes.””
I waited.
“Completely?””
“Completely.””
I nodded slowly.
He leaned forward.
“I failed you tonight.””
“You did.””
He flinched.
I hadn't meant to say it that bluntly.
But it was true.
He deserved to hear it.
“I should've defended you,” he said.
“You should've.””
“I let Vanessa's anger make me question you.””
“You did.””
He nodded.
“I can't change that.””
“No.””
“But I can make sure it doesn't happen again.””
I looked at him.
“Then answer one question.””
His expression changed.
“What question?””
I pulled out my phone.
The photograph was still on the screen.
I held it toward him.
His face went completely still.
The mug in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth.
I watched the color leave his cheeks.
“Dad?””
He didn't answer.
I showed him the date.
“October 14, 2009.””
His eyes fixed on the photograph.
“Where did you get that?””
“Someone sent it to me.””
“Who?””
“I don't know.””
He stood.
“Aaliyah, give me the phone.””
I pulled it back.
“Why?””
“Because I need to see the number.””
I showed him.
He stared.
Then stepped backward.
“That's impossible.””
My stomach twisted.
“You recognize it?””
“No.””
“Dad.””
He rubbed his jaw.
“I said no.””
“You're lying.””
His eyes snapped toward me.
“Don't accuse me of lying.””
“Then tell me what this picture is.””
Marcus turned toward the window.
His shoulders rose and fell.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he whispered, “That picture shouldn't exist.””
My blood ran cold.
“What does that mean?””
He turned back.
“It means whoever sent it to you wants to hurt this family.””
“Why?””
“I don't know.””
“You clearly do.””
“No.””
“Then why are you scared?””
He looked at the photograph again.
“I haven't seen that car in seventeen years.””
I stood.
“What car?””
He didn't answer.
“Dad, what car?””
He walked toward the door.
I followed.
“You said Mom died in a blue Honda.””
Marcus stopped.
His hand tightened around the doorknob.
“Aaliyah…”
“Was it not a blue Honda?””
He slowly turned.
“No.””
The room seemed to tilt.
“What?””
“Your mother wasn't driving that night.””
I couldn't breathe.
“What are you saying?””
Marcus looked at me, and for the first time in my entire life, I saw something in my father's eyes that scared me more than anger.
Regret.
Deep, old regret.
“She wasn't supposed to be in that car.””
My phone buzzed.
Both of us looked down.
Another message.
*Ask him who was driving.*
Marcus saw it.
His face collapsed.
“Aaliyah…”
I whispered, “Who was driving my mother's car?””
He opened his mouth.
Before he could answer, the bedroom door swung inward.
Vanessa stood there.
She was holding my father's old black-and-white wedding album.
Her face was white.
And in her other hand was a photograph she had torn from the album.
She looked directly at Marcus.
“You weren't going to tell her?””
Marcus froze.
Vanessa raised the photograph.
“Then I will.””
She turned it around.
There was a man standing beside my mother's car.
A man I had never seen before.
But Vanessa knew exactly who he was.
Because she whispered his name.
May you like
“Daniel.””
And my father immediately locked the bedroom door.