Chapter 5 - The Man Who Remembered Everything
We didn't go to Savannah immediately.
My mother insisted we speak with a lawyer first.
I hated waiting.
Every hour felt wasted.
Every minute gave someone more time to hide the evidence.
But Mom reminded me that my father's life had already been damaged by people acting without care.
"We're going to do this the right way," she said.
So we met with an attorney named Denise Porter.
She was a Black woman in her early fifties with sharp eyes and a calm voice.
She listened without interrupting.
Walter explained the accident.
Mom described the investigation.
I showed her the photograph and played my father's recording.
Denise took notes.
Then she looked at me.
"Malik, I know you want answers."
I nodded.
"But finding the truth may take time."
I swallowed.
"I've already waited fourteen years."
Her expression softened.
"I know."
She explained that the old accident records would need to be reviewed carefully.
Any surviving footage would have to be authenticated.
Witnesses would need to be interviewed.
And because so much time had passed, some legal claims might face serious barriers.
I listened.
Then asked the only question that mattered.
"Can we still find out what happened?"
Denise nodded.
"Yes. We can investigate."
That was enough for me.
Two days later, we drove to Savannah.
Coach Ellis borrowed a larger vehicle so Mom, Walter, and I could travel comfortably.
The drive took several hours.
I barely spoke.
I held the photograph of my father in my lap.
Every time I looked at it, I noticed something new.
The way he stood.
The way he held the baseball.
The slight tilt of his head.
I had spent fourteen years wondering whether I looked like him.
Now I knew.
We looked almost exactly alike.
When we reached Savannah, Benjamin Foster was waiting outside a small photography studio.
He was seventy-two.
A white man with thick glasses and a gray beard.
His hands were stained with ink.
He looked at Walter.
Then at my mother.
His expression changed.
"Angela Carter?"
Mom nodded.
Benjamin removed his glasses.
"Oh, my goodness."
He looked at me.
Then took a step backward.
"Isaiah?"
My throat tightened.
Mom began crying.
Benjamin covered his mouth.
"I'm sorry."
He stared at my face.
"You look just like him."
I swallowed.
"My name's Malik."
Benjamin reached out his hand.
"It's an honor to meet you."
I shook it.
His grip was surprisingly strong.
Inside the studio, boxes filled the shelves.
Photographs hung on every wall.
Sports teams.
Wedding portraits.
Graduation pictures.
Benjamin led us into a back room.
"I've kept archives for decades," he explained.
"Most people thought I was crazy."
He smiled sadly.
"Maybe I was."
Walter leaned forward.
"Did you find the tapes?"
Benjamin nodded.
"I found three old hard drives."
My heart hammered.
"Do they work?"
"Two do. The third needs professional recovery."
He pointed toward a computer.
"I copied what I could."
We gathered around the screen.
Benjamin opened a folder.
Dozens of video files appeared.
Some were labeled with dates.
Others had names.
Then I saw one.
CARTER TRAINING.
My breath caught.
Benjamin clicked it.
The screen filled with an old baseball field.
My father stood on the mound.
He wore a faded black practice shirt.
A coach shouted instructions.
Then my father threw.
The ball moved so sharply that the catcher nearly missed it.
Walter laughed softly.
"That's him."
My heart swelled.
I had never seen my father move before.
Never seen him throw.
Never seen the way he smiled after a good pitch.
He looked alive.
So alive that I almost forgot he was gone.
Then another player appeared.
Ryan Cole.
Younger.
Stronger.
His face tense.
He watched my father throw.
Then shook his head.
I stared at him.
Even fourteen years earlier, his expression looked familiar.
The same resentment I had seen at the stadium.
Benjamin paused the video.
"This is where it gets interesting."
He opened another file.
The date matched the day of the accident.
My stomach tightened.
Mom reached for my hand.
"Are you sure you want to watch?"
I nodded.
"I need to."
Benjamin pressed play.
The footage showed a wide view of the training facility.
My father was warming up.
Ryan stood near the equipment area.
Several coaches moved around the field.
The practice screen stood near the mound.
I leaned forward.
There was a heavy stabilizing weight at its base.
Then Ryan walked toward it.
My heart began pounding.
He stopped beside the screen.
Looked over his shoulder.
And crouched.
For several seconds, his body blocked the camera's view.
Then he stood.
Something small was in his hand.
I couldn't tell what.
He walked away.
Mom squeezed my fingers.
Walter whispered, "Dear God."
The footage continued.
My father approached the mound.
A coach called for the drill to begin.
Then the video jumped.
The next visible frame showed people running toward the practice screen.
I sat upright.
"What happened?"
Benjamin shook his head.
"The file has missing frames."
I stared.
"Can you fix it?"
"Maybe. The original recording is damaged."
My chest tightened.
"But Ryan touched the screen."
Benjamin nodded.
"Yes."
"Doesn't that prove it?"
Denise, who had joined us remotely by video call, answered.
"It proves he was near the equipment. It doesn't yet prove what he did or why."
I hated that answer.
But I knew she was right.
Benjamin continued.
"There's something else."
He opened a photograph.
It showed the practice screen from another angle.
The stabilizing weight was missing.
My heart stopped.
"Was that taken after Ryan touched it?"
Benjamin nodded.
"The timestamp suggests so."
Walter leaned forward.
"Can you verify that?"
Benjamin pointed toward the metadata.
"We'll need a forensic specialist to confirm the files haven't been altered."
I looked at Mom.
Her face was pale.
She stared at the screen.
Then whispered, "Isaiah knew."
I turned.
"What?"
She looked at me.
"He knew something was wrong before he died."
Tears filled her eyes.
"And nobody listened."
I gripped her hand.
"We're listening now."
Benjamin closed the file.
Then he opened another folder.
Inside was a scanned letter.
Dated two weeks after the accident.
Addressed to Isaiah Carter.
I leaned forward.
"What is that?"
Benjamin looked uncomfortable.
"A letter I found among the old records."
He enlarged it.
The letter was from the training facility's management.
It offered a financial settlement in exchange for confidentiality.
My stomach tightened.
"Did Dad sign it?"
Mom shook her head.
"No."
Benjamin nodded.
"The copy appears unsigned."
I stared at the page.
"They wanted him quiet."
Denise spoke carefully.
"They may have been trying to settle liability claims. The language matters. We need to examine the full document."
Then Benjamin scrolled to the bottom.
There was a handwritten note.
Three words.
Ryan knows why.
I stared at the handwriting.
Walter leaned closer.
"That's Isaiah's writing."
Mom covered her mouth.
I felt my heart hammering.
My father had written it.
He had left a warning.
And now, fourteen years later, we were finally reading it.
Then Benjamin's phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
He answered.
"Hello?"
He listened.
Then went pale.
"How did you get this number?"
Nobody moved.
Benjamin looked toward the door.
His voice trembled.
"No, I haven't shown anyone anything."
My stomach tightened.
Then he whispered, "Please don't come here."
The line went dead.
Benjamin stared at us.
Walter stood.
"Who was that?"
Benjamin swallowed.
"A man who said he worked for Ryan Cole."
I felt cold all over.
"What did he want?"
Benjamin looked at the computer.
"He said those files belong to people who can make my life very difficult."
I stared at the screen.
My father's face remained frozen on the monitor.
Smiling.
May you like
Alive.
And suddenly, I understood that finding the truth might be more dangerous than any of us expected.
