Chapter 6 - THE BLUE HOUSE
Admiral Jonathan Vale had retired six years earlier.
At least officially.
His record was impeccable.
Combat decorations.
Humanitarian awards.
Thirty-four years of service.
No disciplinary actions.
No scandals.
No reason for anyone to remember his name.
Except Brock.
And now me.
We flew north before sunrise.
The blue house was located outside a small coastal town in Oregon.
It wasn't abandoned.
That was the first surprise.
The second was the old pickup truck parked beside it.
The third was the photograph taped to the front door.
It showed Michael and me as children.
I stared at it.
Brock stood behind me.
“I've never seen that.”
“Neither have I.”
Reed carefully removed the photograph.
On the back were four words.
YOU WERE ALWAYS HIS REASON.
I swallowed hard.
Michael had been eight.
I had been eleven.
Our father had taken the photograph at a county fair.
Neither of us knew anyone had kept a copy.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the house smelled like coffee.
Someone had been there recently.
There were two cups on the kitchen table.
One still warm.
Reed checked the rooms.
“Clear.”
Brock found a coat hanging near the back door.
A navy-blue coat.
Inside the pocket was a rosary.
I recognized it.
My mother had given it to Michael before his first deployment.
She had always believed he carried it.
I touched the beads.
There was a small metal tag attached.
M.H.
My eyes burned.
“He was here.”
Brock nodded.
“Recently.”
Then we heard a floorboard creak upstairs.
Everyone froze.
Reed raised his weapon.
We moved slowly.
At the end of the hallway was a bedroom.
The door stood open.
Inside was a desk.
On it lay a stack of photographs.
Michael.
Laura Sullivan.
Admiral Vale.
Senator Voss.
And one other person.
My father.
I picked up the photograph.
They were standing together outside a naval facility.
The date was twelve years earlier.
Before Black Harbor.
Before my father's death.
Before Michael disappeared.
There was something written across the bottom.
THE FOUR MEN WHO BUILT THE NETWORK.
I looked at Brock.
“Four?”
He pointed.
“Your father.”
“Voss.”
“Vale.”
“And the fourth?”
I looked at the photograph again.
The fourth person was cropped out.
Only a shoulder remained.
Then I noticed the coat.
A distinctive Navy coat with a gold insignia.
I knew it.
My mother's.
My heart stopped.
“My mother.”
Brock stared.
“Your mother was involved?”
“I don't know.”
A drawer opened.
Inside was a cassette tape.
Old technology.
Reed found a portable player.
We pressed play.
Michael's voice filled the room.
“Avery, if you're hearing this, I didn't leave you.”
I closed my eyes.
“I was taken.”
Static.
“They told me you were compromised.”
Another pause.
“They wanted me to believe you betrayed us.”
My breath caught.
“I didn't believe them.”
The tape continued.
“Because you were my sister.”
A long silence.
Then Michael said something that changed everything.
“Dad wasn't killed because he knew about the network.”
I opened my eyes.
“He was killed because he helped build it.”
The tape stopped.
Nobody moved.
Brock looked at me.
“You didn't know.”
“No.”
Reed asked, “Could your father have been involved?”
I shook my head.
“I don't know.”
That was the worst answer.
Because the story I had carried for years was simple.
My father was an honest man.
A victim.
A good man who died trying to expose corruption.
Now I wasn't sure.
Another discovery waited in the desk.
A ledger.
Not the Black Harbor ledger.
A financial record.
Payments made over twelve years.
One account appeared repeatedly.
Hayes Family Trust.
I stared.
My father's name.
My mother's name.
Michael's name.
Mine.
I felt physically sick.
Brock said quietly, “That doesn't mean you were involved.”
“No.”
“It could have been a cover account.”
“Then why was my name on it?”
No one answered.
The front door slammed downstairs.
Reed moved first.
We rushed down.
The house was empty.
The photograph of Michael and me was gone.
The rosary remained.
So did the ledger.
Then Brock saw something outside.
A car disappearing down the road.
He ran.
I followed.
We reached the porch.
The car was already too far away.
But something had fallen from the driver's window.
A small envelope.
Inside was a single photograph.
My mother.
Standing beside Admiral Vale.
And beside them was Michael.
Alive.
The date on the photograph was three years after the military had declared him dead.
On the back was a handwritten message.
YOUR MOTHER KNOWS WHERE HE IS.
I stared at the photograph.
My mother had spent seven years telling me Michael was gone.
Now I knew she had seen him alive.
Maybe recently.
Maybe for years.
Then my phone rang.
I answered.
No voice.
Only a recording.
My mother's voice.
“Avery, if you're hearing this, don't trust Vale.”
A pause.
“Trust Michael.”
Then another voice interrupted hers.
A man's voice.
Calm.
Familiar.
“Your mother has lied to you for twelve years.”
The recording ended.
Brock looked at me.
“Who was that?”
I stared at the phone.
May you like
I knew the voice.
It belonged to Admiral Jonathan Vale.
