Chapter 4
The blue notebook.
I read those words at least twenty times.
My mother stood beside our car, watching my face.
"Malik, what's wrong?"
I handed her the phone.
She read the message.
Then she covered her mouth.
For a moment, she looked unable to breathe.
"Mom?"
She looked at me.
"Where did this come from?"
"I don't know."
Her hands began shaking.
I felt fear crawling up my spine.
"Do you know what the blue notebook is?"
She looked away.
"Mom."
Tears filled her eyes.
"Yes."
My heart pounded.
"Where is it?"
She closed her eyes.
"I thought it was gone."
I stared.
"What do you mean?"
She leaned against the car.
"Your father kept a notebook during his last season."
I swallowed.
"What was in it?"
"Names. Dates. Conversations."
My stomach tightened.
"Evidence?"
She nodded.
"He said he was documenting everything because he knew someone was trying to frame him."
I felt my anger rise.
"Then why didn't he show it to the police?"
"He tried."
I stared at her.
"What happened?"
She shook her head.
"Some of the people involved had powerful connections. Your father was frightened that reporting everything would put our family in danger."
I looked down at the phone.
"Did he give up?"
My mother's face changed.
"Your father never gave up."
Her voice grew stronger.
"He kept fighting to clear his name."
I swallowed.
"Then why didn't he?"
She began crying.
"Because he ran out of time."
My heart dropped.
I knew exactly what she meant.
Three years earlier, Dad had been driving home from a construction job when another vehicle crossed the center line.
He died before the ambulance arrived.
The driver responsible had been charged.
It was an accident.
At least, that's what I had always believed.
"Mom," I whispered, "was Dad's accident connected to this?"
She looked frightened.
"I don't know, Malik. And we cannot assume it was."
I nodded slowly.
But my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
That evening, we returned to our small rental house.
The kitchen light flickered.
A stack of bills sat beside the refrigerator.
Mom had worked a double shift.
I could see exhaustion in every movement she made.
But neither of us wanted to sleep.
She brought a cardboard box from her bedroom.
Inside were Dad's belongings.
A faded baseball cap.
A pair of work gloves.
Old photographs.
And a small wooden frame holding our family picture.
I picked it up.
Dad stood behind me.
His hands rested on my shoulders.
I was nine.
I remembered that day.
He'd taken me to a baseball game.
We'd eaten hot dogs.
And he'd promised that someday he'd watch me pitch on a real field.
I pressed the photograph against my chest.
"I miss him."
Mom sat beside me.
"I know, baby."
I looked at the box.
"Where's the notebook?"
She shook her head.
"I searched for it after he died."
"And?"
"I never found it."
I stared at her.
"Could somebody have taken it?"
She hesitated.
"Maybe."
We searched the box anyway.
Every pocket.
Every envelope.
Every old folder.
Nothing.
Then I found a photograph I'd never seen.
Dad stood beside Coach Arthur.
They were on a baseball field.
Both were smiling.
On the back, Dad had written:
The man who taught me to believe in myself.
My throat tightened.
"Mom?"
She looked up.
"Yes?"
"Did Dad ever forgive Coach Arthur?"
Her eyes filled.
"I don't know."
I stared at the photograph.
For years, I had imagined Dad as someone who never felt afraid.
Someone who always knew what to do.
Now I was learning that he'd suffered.
That he'd been betrayed.
And that he'd carried pain I never understood.
I wondered how many nights he'd lain awake worrying about our future.
My phone vibrated again.
Another unknown message.
Check the glove.
I froze.
Mom saw my expression.
"What?"
I showed her.
She frowned.
"Which glove?"
I looked into the box.
Dad's old baseball glove lay at the bottom.
Brown leather.
Cracked stitching.
A faded name written inside.
D. JOHNSON.
I picked it up.
My fingers traced the worn leather.
Then I noticed something strange.
One section of stitching near the wrist had been repaired with blue thread.
Dad always used brown.
I turned the glove over.
"Mom, did Dad repair this?"
She leaned closer.
"I don't remember."
My heart pounded.
I pressed the leather.
Something stiff was hidden inside.
"There's something here."
Mom covered her mouth.
Carefully, I loosened the already frayed stitches.
A small folded piece of paper slipped out.
I unfolded it.
Written in Dad's handwriting were six words.
Arthur knows where the truth sleeps.
I stared at the paper.
My mother began crying.
"Daniel..."
I looked at her.
"What does that mean?"
She wiped her eyes.
"I don't know."
I turned the paper over.
There was an address.
A storage facility on the outskirts of Savannah.
And a unit number.
214.
I felt electricity move through my body.
"Mom, we have to go there."
She shook her head.
"Not tonight."
"But—"
"Malik, listen."
Her voice was firm.
"We're not rushing into something we don't understand."
I looked away.
She touched my shoulder.
"We'll speak to someone we trust. Then we'll decide what to do."
I wanted to argue.
But I could see the fear in her eyes.
And I remembered Dad's words.
Being brave doesn't mean being careless.
I nodded.
"Okay."
The next morning, Mom called a local attorney named Grace Mitchell.
Grace had helped families in our neighborhood before.
She listened carefully.
Then she asked us to bring every photograph, message, and document we had.
We met her that afternoon.
Her office was small but welcoming.
She examined the note.
Then looked at the address.
"Do you know who rented this storage unit?"
Mom shook her head.
"No."
Grace made several calls.
An hour later, she returned with unexpected news.
"The unit is still active."
My heart jumped.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Who pays for it?"
She hesitated.
"The account is in Daniel Johnson's name."
Mom stared.
"But Daniel died three years ago."
Grace nodded.
"Someone has continued making payments."
I felt cold.
"Who?"
"That's what we need to find out."
She leaned forward.
"Before we visit, I want to make sure the storage facility verifies our legal right to access the unit."
I nodded.
"When can we go?"
"Tomorrow morning, if everything checks out."
That night, I barely slept.
I kept thinking about the glove.
The blue stitching.
The note.
And the person sending anonymous messages.
Someone knew where Dad had hidden things.
Someone knew about the blue notebook.
Someone wanted us to find it.
But why now?
The next morning, Grace drove Mom and me to the storage facility.
Coach Arthur met us there.
I hadn't wanted him involved.
But Mom insisted.
"He may understand what Daniel left behind," she said.
When Arthur saw me, he lowered his head.
"Malik."
I didn't answer.
He didn't push.
We walked toward unit 214.
The manager verified the paperwork.
Then unlocked the door.
The metal shutter rattled upward.
Inside stood several cardboard boxes.
An old desk.
And one large wooden trunk.
My heart began pounding.
I recognized the trunk immediately.
It had stood in our garage when Dad was alive.
I stepped toward it.
On top lay a folded blue baseball jersey.
Across the back were two words.
DANIEL JOHNSON.
I touched the fabric.
Tears filled my eyes.
Then Arthur whispered behind me.
"That's his old uniform."
I opened the trunk.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
Old newspaper clippings.
And beneath everything, wrapped in a plastic sleeve, was a small blue notebook.
My breath stopped.
I picked it up.
My father's handwriting covered the first page.
If anything happens to me, make sure Malik knows the truth.
I looked at Mom.
She began crying.
Then I turned the page.
May you like
And the first name written inside made Coach Arthur collapse into a chair.
Robert Mercer.
