“That’s what we need to find out.”
❖ ❖ ❖
Dad stared at the photograph again — five men standing inside a chemical plant, all of them smiling beneath harsh industrial lights. Ethan looked younger than I remembered, his brown hair falling over his forehead, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket like he already knew he was standing too close to danger. Beside him stood the plant director, Charles Voss. And beside Voss stood my father.
But it was the handwriting at the bottom that made the room feel airless.
YOUR FATHER TRIED TO WARN THEM.
“I don’t remember this,” Dad said. “I swear to you, Anna, I don’t remember standing there with Ethan.”
Mom wiped her eyes. “Richard, think. Please.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead slowly.
“I remember the plant director. Martin Vale. Cold man. Always polite, never warm.” He swallowed. “I remember the inspections. The night shifts. The rumors. I remember Ethan coming around asking questions.”
“You knew he was investigating?” I asked.
