Chapter 7: The Edge of Forgiveness

Suddenly, a fight broke out upstairs. Everyone stopped and looked up.

Suddenly, a scream—Allison was shoved and flipped over the railing, falling headfirst.

I was closest and sprinted over. Everything slowed: the thud of sneakers on concrete, the sharp intake of breath from the crowd, my own thoughts shouting, Move! I caught her, but my arm snapped from the impact, pain shooting up to my shoulder.

She sat stunned for a second, then jumped up, cheeks flaming. The teacher came and hustled me to the ER.

I was out for a week. When I got back, my right hand was useless. With finals looming, I couldn’t keep up.

One night after cram school, I was alone, copying notes with my left hand, staring at the blackboard, anxious.

A soft scent. A notebook slid onto my desk. "I copied it for you."

I turned, shocked—it was Allison.

She blushed. "You want it or not?"

I took the notebook, and all my resentment vanished. Even now, I don’t know why.

"Let’s go. Everyone else left," she said.

"Oh, right." I followed her to the door and reached for the light.

"Don’t turn it off." She gently pressed my hand.

"Why not?"

She just walked to the window and pointed. "Look."

Outside, an old couple sat on the curb, eating dinner by the glow of our classroom light.

That night, I lay awake. That couple would never know a light shone just for them.

So she was kind—just not to me.

After that, something changed. She stopped bullying me. She copied notes for me, sat with me in meetings. I wanted to ask, "Don’t I smell anymore?" but I never did. I didn’t want to ruin it.

By the time my cast came off, we were inseparable. Our classmates were shocked. Sometimes, life flips the script.

After finals, at a class party, she asked me to walk her home.

Near her place, she stopped. Under a streetlight stood a figure—Director Evans.

He glared at me, said nothing, and pulled Allison inside. I stood alone in the dark.

When I got home, Dad yelled at me. Evans must’ve called. It was the first time Dad ever raised his voice. I was shaking.

I explained we were just friends. Afterward, Dad apologized. He said Evans had never yelled at him before, so he lost control. But he was firm: I was not to see Allison again.

"We’re not good enough for them." Dad broke down in tears. I’d never seen him cry before. It broke my heart.

It seemed Allison’s words years ago had cut deep.

I sighed and never spoke to her again.

If these things happened alone, they’d be just stories. But now, with everything I’d learned, I couldn’t ignore the possibility.

Given the years of friendship, Evans’ furious reaction made sense—if there was a line that couldn’t be crossed.

What line? That Allison and I were half-siblings.

The medical report showing Evans’ blood type proved Dad had become suspicious. But what triggered it? I’d never know.

The police thought it was a revenge killing by someone familiar. Who could it be? Dad’s circle was small. I went through everyone, and finally landed on Evans.

It was absurd. I felt a mix of anger and disbelief, my fists clenching, a bitter laugh escaping me. Allison, who once looked down on me, was probably my half-sister. She landed a cushy job at the county tax office. I was out here hustling DoorDash to pay rent.

I remembered Dad’s work troubles needed Evans’ help. Now I needed to see him.

Downstairs, as I rehearsed what to say, I saw two women come out.

One was Dr. Evans, holding another woman’s hand as if saying goodbye. I was about to wave when the other woman turned and I froze.

It was her!

---

Half a month ago, on a Saturday, I got a DoorDash order to a riverside campground.

There were bags of takeout everywhere—these folks were living it up, camping and ordering everything delivered.

The woman had small eyes, not young, but her skin was flawless. With her styled bob and a North Face jacket, she looked every inch the suburban country club set. I sighed, wishing I could take Dad here for a day.

I was about to leave when she called out, "Hey, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure, what’s up?"

"My arm’s sprained. Could you cut these cantaloupes for me?" She pointed to two melons on the picnic table.

"Use that paring knife." She nodded at a knife in a bag.

On the day of the murder, I’d just left home when the DoorDash app pinged me for a nearby pickup.

In two minutes, I was at the spot. A silver-gray sedan pulled up, and the woman from the campground got out.

"Hey!" she called. I recognized her instantly.

"Small world," she smiled, handing me a laptop bag.

I was about to tap "order received," but she stopped me. "We know each other now. I’ll pay you direct."

For a gig worker, that’s the dream—no fees, no ratings. I agreed.

As I took the bag, I noticed she wore lace gloves. What a detail.

Suddenly, everything clicked.

She’d ordered all that food just to get my prints on the knife. She had me deliver the bag to a spot Ellery said was a camera blind spot—she must’ve picked it on purpose, but missed the convenience store across the street.

Her gloves? To keep her own prints off the bag.

A rush of images and fragmented thoughts crashed through me—her voice, the knife, the gloves, Dad’s body. My mind reeled.

It all came back to this family. And from the look of it, this was Dr. Evans’ doing.

As I hesitated, she saw me. Her smile vanished, her face turning ashen.

I glanced at Dr. Evans, still on the porch. She looked even worse, gripping the railing for support.

Seeing Dr. Evans coming, I hopped on my bike and sped off. In my mirror, the two women just stood there, staring.

I pulled over a few blocks away, heart pounding. I didn’t confront them—there was no need. It was all clear.

My phone rang.

"Sam, it’s Mr. Evans. There may be a misunderstanding. Where are you? Can we talk?"

His voice was strained, trying to sound calm, but I heard the desperation under it.

"What’s there to talk about? I know everything."

"For the sake of our families’ years together, please give me a chance to explain."

"One hour, at the coffee shop across from the station. If you don’t convince me, I’m going straight to the cops."

I hung up, then called Detective Ellery.

---

The coffee shop across from the station was a regular DoorDash stop for me.

The bell over the door jingled as I walked in. The place smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon rolls. I found a corner booth and texted Ellery, who replied with a thumbs-up emoji. He was watching from the station across the street, binoculars trained on the window.

After I filled Ellery in, he was shocked, but quickly set up a team to watch from the police station with binoculars and told me what to ask.

When I arrived, Thomas Evans was already waiting. I forced myself to sit across from him.

He looked older than I remembered, hair thinning, face drawn. He tried to smile, but it came out crooked. "You made it, Sam." His voice was shaky, and there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes. He tried to slide over, but I stopped him with a look.

"Mr. Evans, should I call you that, or something else?" I stared him down, my jaw tight.

He hesitated. "Some things aren’t what you think..."

"Let’s get to it. What’s really going on? What happened to my dad? For my sake, I hope you won’t treat me like a fool."

He saw I was serious and started talking, voice low, hands twisting on the table.

Just as I suspected, during the city council’s restructuring, Dad was facing a demotion. My mom went to Evans for help.

But he’d been obsessed with my mom. He got her drunk and raped her. She kept quiet, afraid Dad would find out, and Evans promised to help with Dad’s job.

A month later, Mom found out she was pregnant and went to Evans, who panicked and wanted her to abort. She refused, knowing that without the baby, Evans might back out of helping Dad. He had no choice.

When she was about to give birth and learned it was a boy, Evans wanted her to keep the baby. His own wife had just had a girl, and with the one-child rule at the time, he couldn’t have more. The boy would keep his family name going. Out of pride, he wanted the kid’s name to have the same root as his own.

My name, Samuel Whitaker, was basically a nod to Samuel Evans. Dad was so clueless.

But Dr. Evans found out. After confronting her husband, he confessed. My mom was about to give birth, so Dr. Evans pressured him to send Dad out of town, then delivered my mom’s baby herself.

I shuddered. Did Mom die in childbirth, or did Dr. Evans do something?

Evans shook his head. "I always wondered, but she never admitted it. Your mom had a massive hemorrhage, and there was another doctor in the room. Probably not."

Thank God for that other doctor, or I might not be here.

"So how did my dad die?"

"Later, at a work health check, the hospital ran every test. Old Henry found out he was infertile. He started to suspect."

So that was it. But I never saw Dad’s report.

"Your mom died soon after marrying him. There weren’t many men it could’ve been. He got your college entrance exam blood type and suspected it was me."

"How did he confirm it?"

"He didn’t. He came to my house, in front of Dr. Evans, and said you were struggling after college, working nights. He wanted me to help. I was annoyed—why not talk at work? Later, I realized it was a test."

"Why?"

"He suspected you were my kid but had no proof. By asking in front of Dr. Evans, I’d feel pressured. If you really were my kid, I’d help to hide it from her. But Old Henry didn’t know Dr. Evans already knew."

"So, in the end, did you and Dr. Evans kill my dad?"

He shook his head, voice cracking. "I really don’t know. I was out of town. When I got back, I saw Dr. Evans and her sister downstairs, looking panicked. After pressing, she confessed. She was so anxious, she wouldn’t have told me otherwise."

So that was her sister—Evans’ sister-in-law. No one else would take that risk.

"She overheard me and Henry talking and knew the secret might come out. If Henry told, my career would be over. Maybe your mom’s death would land on her, so she went to Henry that morning, said she had a solution for your job and wanted to discuss it at home."

It all made sense. Dad knew I wasn’t his biological son but still loved me as his own. He died trying to help me.

But I needed Evans to say it. I quietly started the recorder Ellery gave me.

"When Henry went to get something, she slipped sleeping pills into his coffee, then chatted to stall him. He soon passed out, and she did it..."

"You know the knife she used was set up in advance, covered with my prints." My voice shook, anger and disbelief warring inside me.

"I swear, I didn’t know. That woman wanted to set you up, too. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you."

"Protect me? Mr. Evans, now you’ve found your conscience?" I shot back, my hands trembling.

"Sam..."

"Don’t call me that! I’ll never forgive you." I slammed the table, my chest burning.

"Are you going to turn me in? Sam, I’m your real father. I’ve worked so hard for you all these years... I’ll make it up to you. Henry’s gone. I’ll take care of you. For both our sakes, think it over, okay?"

I said nothing, just stared him down, my fists clenched in my lap.

He sighed. "Wait a minute, I need the restroom."

After he left, I sat in a daze, torn in half. If I turned him in, my biological father would be ruined; if I didn’t, how could I face Henry Whitaker, who raised me?

The door opened, and I looked up, startled.

It was Allison Evans.

She sat beside me, her posture stiff, hands twisting in her lap. She put her hand on my knee, eyes shining.

"Brother."

Hearing that, I trembled. Yes, she was my real sister.

"Forgive Dad and Mom, please?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, her body tense, shoulders hunched. I couldn’t look at her.

But I shook my head. "After what they did, I can’t forgive them." My heart ached, my throat tight.

She looked at me for a long time. I couldn’t meet her eyes. She finally looked away, biting her lip, her hands fidgeting with her phone.

"It’s stuffy here. Let’s talk on the roof, okay?"

I nodded, barely trusting my voice.

On the roof, we leaned on the railing, the city lights glittering below us.

The wind whipped around us, carrying the scent of distant rain. Cars crawled by below, headlights flickering. I felt like I was standing on the edge of the world, my heart pounding, hands gripping the cold metal rail.

"It’s almost peaceful up here—hard to believe what’s happened," she said softly, looking out over the city. "But if you harden your heart, I’ll be stuck in hell."

"But I can’t let Dad die for nothing."

"Not even for me? Dad said he’ll treat you right, bring you home tomorrow." She looked at me, pleading, her voice cracking. I hesitated, but shook my head.

She shivered, tears streaming down her face, her breath catching in the wind.

"Sorry," she whispered, voice barely audible.

Maybe the wind was cold. I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "You cold? Let’s go down."

She shook her head, hugging the jacket tight.

"Wait here. I’ll get you some hot water." I hurried downstairs, really just needing to breathe, to escape for a moment.

As I came back with a mug, I heard a scream.

"Ah—"

It was Allison’s voice!

I raced up. Everything felt slow—the sound of my footsteps, the mug slipping from my grip and shattering, the wind rushing past my ears. A man’s silhouette loomed where we’d stood. His hand was still half-raised, frozen in shock.

He turned, panic etched on his face. His glasses caught the city lights—Thomas Evans.

In that instant, I realized: they’d planned to lure me to the roof and push me off.

But I’d put my jacket on Allison, so in the dark, Evans mistook her for me and pushed her instead. Only after the scream did he realize his mistake.

I bolted down the stairs. Through the window, I saw movement at Ellery’s surveillance post across the street.

I kept running, my mind spinning, heart pounding in my throat.

Behind me, Thomas Evans’ anguished howl echoed into the night, mixing with the sirens that finally began to wail.