Chapter 2
I spent the next hour pretending Christmas morning could continue.
It couldn’t.
Noah came back into the living room carrying a remote-control truck.
He looked at my face.
Children always know when adults are lying.
“You’re sad.”
I forced a smile.
“Just surprised.”
“Because the bike used to be yours?”
I looked at Mom.
She looked guilty.
Apparently he had heard more than I thought.
“Yes.”
Noah touched the red frame.
“So Grandpa gave it to you?”
The word Grandpa hit me strangely.
My father had been missing so long that Noah knew him only from one old photograph.
A Black man in his early thirties standing beside a brown station wagon.
Broad shoulders.
Warm eyes.
My eyes.
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Grandpa bought it for me.”
Noah smiled.
“Then now it’s mine.”
Mom covered her mouth.
I nodded.
“Now it’s yours.”
He rang the bell once.
Ring.
The sound went through me differently.
After breakfast, Noah went outside to try the bicycle in the driveway.
I stayed beside him.
I didn’t care that the December air was cold.
I didn’t care that Mom kept watching me through the front window.
I needed something normal.
“Don’t let go!” Noah shouted.
“I’m holding you.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
I ran beside him with one hand gripping the back of the seat.
He pedaled.
Wobbled.
Straightened.
For one second, another memory struck me so hard I almost stopped running.
A hand behind my bicycle seat.
My father’s voice.
Keep going, Marcus. I’ve got you.
I lost my breath.
Noah looked over his shoulder.
“Dad?”
“I’m here.”
I kept running.
Later, when he was distracted with lunch, I took the bicycle into the garage.
Mom followed.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding what Dad hid.”
Her face tightened.
“Maybe we shouldn’t.”
I turned.
“Thirty years.”
“What?”
“I spent thirty years believing my father abandoned me.”
My voice shook.
“Whatever is inside this frame belongs to me.”
She looked down.
“You’re right.”
I put the bicycle on my work stand.
The old frame had several removable components.
Seat post.
Handlebar stem.
Crank assembly.
I had already cleaned most of them during restoration.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something.
The bottom bracket.
When I serviced it, one side refused to loosen.
I had decided not to force it.
Now I grabbed a wrench.
Mom stood behind me.
“Marcus.”
“What?”
“If there really is something inside…”
She hesitated.
“You need to understand that Samuel was scared.”
I stopped.
“You keep saying that.”
“He changed during his last month.”
“How?”
“He started checking windows at night.”
My stomach tightened.
“He would drive past the house before coming home.”
“Did you ask why?”
“Every night.”
“And?”
“He kept telling me the less I knew, the safer I was.”
I looked at her.
“Did you believe him?”
“No.”
Her answer was immediate.
“I thought he was having an affair.”
That surprised me.
“What?”
“He was secretive. Coming home late. Taking phone calls outside.”
She laughed bitterly.
“I accused him.”
“What did he say?”
“He looked devastated.”
Mom sat on a stool.
“He told me there was no other woman. Then he said one sentence I never forgot.”
“What?”
She looked at me.
“I’m trying to make sure Marcus grows up with at least one parent.”
My hands went still.
“That sounds like he thought he was going to die.”
“I know.”
I turned the wrench.
The metal groaned.
Once.
Twice.
Then the bracket loosened.
Something rattled inside the frame.
Mom gasped.
We stared at each other.
I tilted the bicycle.
A faint metallic sound moved through the lower tube.
There was something in there.
My pulse hammered.
I removed the crank assembly.
Then I shined a flashlight into the opening.
At first I saw nothing.
Then something reflected light.
A small cylinder.
Wrapped in dark plastic.
I used long pliers to pull it free.
Mom stood.
“Oh my God.”
The package was about five inches long.
Old electrical tape sealed both ends.
My fingers shook as I cut it open.
Inside was a brass key.
A tiny roll of photographic film.
And a folded piece of paper.
Mom whispered my name.
I opened the paper.
The handwriting was familiar even though I hadn’t seen it since childhood birthday cards.
Marcus,
If you are reading this, then I did not get back in time.
My vision blurred instantly.
I stopped.
Mom touched my shoulder.
“Read it.”
I forced myself.
You may be too young to understand when this reaches you. One day your mother will decide what you should know. Do not blame her for being afraid. I asked her to keep you safe.
I looked at Mom.
She was crying silently.
I continued.
I found proof that people I trusted have been stealing from the company and using my name to hide it. I copied what I could. The photographs show the records. The key opens box 314 at Franklin Union Storage.
My heart pounded.
Franklin Union.
The name meant nothing to me.
Mom whispered, “That place closed years ago.”
I kept reading.
Do not trust Richard.
My eyes stopped.
Richard.
Uncle Richard.
Not my real uncle.
My father’s best friend.
The man who had visited us every Christmas until I was twelve.
The man who helped Mom when Dad disappeared.
The man who paid for part of my college.
I read the line again.
Do not trust Richard.
My stomach turned.
Mom backed away.
“No.”
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“I swear.”
Her face had gone gray.
“Richard helped us.”
I looked at the note.
“He helped himself.”
There was more.
If something happens to me, Richard will tell you I ran. He will say I stole money. He may even say I left the country. Do not believe him.
I felt sick.
Those were almost exactly the things I remembered adults whispering when I was a child.
Dad ran.
Dad owed money.
Dad had probably gone overseas.
Mom had never confirmed those rumors.
She had never denied them either.
I finished the letter.
I love you, son. Every choice I made after finding this was meant to bring me home to you. If I failed, know this: leaving you was never the choice.
Dad.
I couldn’t see the page anymore.
Tears blurred everything.
I sat on the concrete floor.
Mom knelt beside me.
“I’m sorry.”
I shook my head.
“You let me hate him.”
“I thought hatred was safer than hope.”
I looked at her.
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
She closed her eyes.
“I know.”
Noah suddenly opened the garage door.
“Dad?”
Mom wiped her face quickly.
I folded the letter.
“What’s wrong, buddy?”
“There’s a man outside.”
My entire body tightened.
“What man?”
“He says he knows Grandma.”
Mom stood.
We walked toward the front window.
A dark SUV sat at the curb.
An older Black man stood beside it.
Tall.
Gray coat.
Silver hair.
Mom grabbed my arm.
Her fingernails dug into my skin.
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Who is that?”
She whispered one name.
“Richard.”
I stared through the glass.
May you like
Thirty years after my father warned me not to trust him, Richard Cole was standing outside my house on Christmas Day.
And somehow he already knew the bicycle had come home.
