Chapter 2: Secrets Dad Can’t Hide

I lay in the dark, the glow of my phone burning into my eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. I kept replaying the call, searching for clues in every word.

When I woke up, I saw several messages from my dad, sent around four in the morning:

[Don’t answer strange calls. That phone’s been out of service for years. How could anyone call in?]

[Throw that phone away, as far away as you can.]

[Don’t mention this to your aunt or grandma!]

[Do what I say. Dad would never hurt you!]

Dad never texted like this. Not ever. The urgency in his words made my skin crawl. He never texted this much—not unless he was scared out of his mind.

After reading those messages, my once-calm heart was now anything but.

I felt a chill settle in my chest. Dad’s panic was almost contagious. I started to wonder if I’d stumbled onto something bigger than just a prank call.

He’d never sounded this rattled.

I scrolled through the messages again, looking for some sign of reassurance, but there was none. Only fear. Only secrets.

This wasn’t simple.

Right—there’s no way a phone that’s been out of service for twenty years could get a call.

The logic was ironclad. No way. But still—I turned the phone over in my hands. It felt like holding a ghost.

The only possibility was that the call came from my mom, twenty years ago.

The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Was it possible? Or was I just... I don’t know, losing it?

In another timeline, she was still clinging to the hope that my dad would pick her up after her night shift, an obsession she carried to her grave.

The idea haunted me—the image of her waiting, night after night, for a ride that never came. A hope that refused to die, even after everything else had.

But my deadbeat dad was terrified—too scared to even answer.

He’d always run from anything difficult. It figured he’d run from this, too.

I’ve always been rebellious. The more he tells me not to do something, the more I want to do it. So I turned right around and asked my aunt about my mom.

My fingers hovered over her contact. For a long second, I almost chickened out. Then I hit call. Aunt June always told it like it was. I figured if anyone would spill the truth, it’d be her.

Her reaction was... off.

She sounded startled, almost like she’d been expecting this call for years. I heard her breathing, heavy and uneven, before she finally spoke.

Under my relentless questioning, she hesitated, then finally made up her mind: "You’re old enough now. It’s time you knew the truth."

Her voice was steady, but I could tell it cost her something to say the words. I braced myself.

"Your mom didn’t die of illness. She was killed by someone on her way home from a night shift."

The words hit me like a freight train. I clutched the phone, knuckles white. I wanted to scream. Nothing came out.

"She was murdered, and the case was never solved."

My breath caught in my throat. I’d always suspected something was off, but hearing it out loud was something else entirely.

"We didn’t tell you because you were too young. Don’t let it weigh on you—your mom wouldn’t want you to be sad."

Aunt June’s voice was soft, almost pleading. She sounded like she was trying to comfort herself as much as me.

I was stunned. "Night shift? What day did my mom die?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it. I needed to know every detail, needed to piece together the truth.

"August 13, 2005. It was pouring that night. She called your dad to pick her up after her shift… But your dad was tangled up with some woman from the plant back then. He hung up on her."

Aunt June’s voice was tight with anger. I could hear her swallow hard before she continued.

"That scumbag! We’ll never forgive him. If it weren’t for him, your aunt wouldn’t be dead!"

Her words echoed in my ears. I felt a fresh wave of rage, hot and choking. It wasn’t just grief—it was betrayal.

August 13, 2005.

I remembered clearly—that was the exact date my mom mentioned on the phone.

I grabbed a pen and scribbled the date on a scrap of paper, as if writing it down would make sense of it all.