Chapter 3: Secrets in the Silence

My vision was still blurry, so I rubbed at my eyes.

"No need to look. I’ll tell you. Your dad, Henry Whitaker, was blood type B. Your mom’s records—she had a transfusion before she died—show she was type B too. We just took your blood sample. You’re type AB."

"That..." My thoughts spun. Wait, that can’t be right. Everyone knows: two type B parents can’t have a type AB kid. That’s just basic biology, right?

"No way! That’s got to be a mistake..." I tried to protest, but my knees buckled, and I had to grab the edge of the cot.

Ellery’s face softened a little. "I’m telling you, Sam, you need to be straight with us."

"Detective Ellery, can you check the security cameras by Silver Hollow Elementary? I was standing there in a yellow jacket for ages. If there’s any footage, you’ll see me."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "All right, I’ll have someone check. But you’d better think hard while I’m gone. If you’re still playing games when I get back, I won’t be so patient."

Bang! The door slammed. I dropped onto the cot, alone and shaking. I closed my eyes and let the tears come, my whole body wracked with silent sobs.

---

My dad was a retired Marine. After leaving the Corps, he landed a job as a full-time driver for the Maple Heights City Council.

His medals hung in a neat row above his dresser, gathering dust. He kept his hair high-and-tight, even years after retirement. He never talked much about his time overseas, but you could see it in the way he stood, the way he folded his shirts, the way he kept the house spotless—like he was still on base.

In my memories, he was quiet, never much for small talk or hanging out, and he never went to college. Because of that, he never got promoted—his buddies became supervisors or directors, but he stayed behind the wheel.

He’d come home in his city-issued windbreaker, boots caked with mud, hands rough and cracked. He’d listen to the radio at the kitchen table, nodding along to Johnny Cash or Merle Haggard. I never once heard him complain.

But his love life was smoother. After the Marines, he met my mom through a family friend. They clicked and married fast.

"My biggest regret is not being there when your mom passed," he’d say after a couple of beers. Once, I asked, "What’s the happiest thing in your life, Dad?"

He looked out the window at the maple trees. "Marrying your mom. She was beautiful. People said we weren’t a good match—she was smart, bookish, I was just a blue-collar guy. They wondered why someone like her would pick me..." He turned and hugged me. "But she had her reasons. Her dad lost everything in the farm crisis, and back then, marrying a vet like me meant stability."

I didn’t get it as a kid, but I knew my mom was the center of my dad’s world. We lived in a tiny two-bedroom. Some nights, I’d wake up to see my dad sitting under the lamp, stroking Mom’s photo and crying quietly.

The house was always quiet after she died, the kind of silence that seeps into the walls. I’d hear him pacing late at night, sometimes muttering prayers, sometimes just breathing heavy, lost in his own memories.

In middle school, I started thinking about what it meant to make something of yourself. My classmates talked about having connections, powerful parents. For a while, I thought my dad was a nobody—he had a good job but never moved up.

One semester, I placed third in class. After the parent-teacher meeting, Dad was so happy he poured himself a glass of whiskey and even let me have a sip. I took the chance to ask, "Dad, why don’t you work harder, get promoted? Why not let someone else drive you around?"

He froze. "Son, do you think your old man is a loser?" His eyes flickered. I instantly regretted it. I stared at my shoes. "I just think... people should achieve something."

The room went quiet for a long time. Then he sighed and ruffled my hair. "Kid, nothing makes me prouder than you being healthy and happy. My greatest accomplishment is you."

His voice was thick with emotion. I didn’t understand then, but now, sitting in that cell, every word landed like a gut punch.