All showing the same thing: Thomas had built something substantial. And left it all to me.
“How?” I asked. “How did he have all this when I was told he died in 1974?”
Albert sat down across from me. “That’s part of what I need to explain.”
Thomas hadn’t died in 1974. He’d disappeared.
In the summer of that year, he’d been working construction. Good job. Steady pay. We were saving for a house.
Then one day he didn’t come home. His foreman called. Said Thomas hadn’t shown up for work. Wasn’t answering calls.
I filed a missing person report. Police investigated. Found his truck abandoned near the state line. No sign of him. No explanation.
Six months later, they declared him legally dead. Presumed victim of foul play. Case closed.
I grieved. Moved on. Remarried. Built a life with Franklin.
“But he wasn’t dead,” Albert said. “He was in witness protection.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“Thomas witnessed a crime. A murder. Connected to organized crime. The people involved were powerful. Dangerous. The FBI offered him protection. A new identity. A new life.”
“Without telling me?”
“They told him he couldn’t contact you. That doing so would put you in danger. He had to choose: testify and disappear, or refuse and likely be killed himself.”
