Chapter 6: Changing Fate, Changing Truth

I opened my laptop and searched for the news again, wanting to double-check. To my surprise, the story had changed.

My heart leapt. I scanned the article, looking for any sign that my call had made a difference.

My mom’s murder was still there, but the police investigation now included a different coworker’s statement.

A new detail—maybe a crack in the wall of fate. I read on, hope flickering in my chest.

The coworker said that when they left the plant together, my mom was cursing my dad, saying he’d found another woman and was stringing her along—wouldn’t let her go.

The words felt like a window into her final hours—her anger, her heartbreak. I could almost hear her voice, sharp and wounded.

But when the police tracked down the mistress, a woman named Tina, she flatly denied everything.

The investigation hit another dead end. Tina’s denial was ironclad, her alibi airtight.

She claimed she hadn’t contacted Linda Mayfield that night, that she was sick and went to bed early, and her parents and her kid could vouch for her.

I wondered if she was lying, or if she really had nothing to do with it. The mystery deepened, and I felt myself sinking into it.

The police pulled the call records from the phone company, and sure enough, it checked out.

Another door slammed shut. I could almost hear the detectives sighing, closing the file once again.

In the end, it was still a twenty-year-old unsolved mystery.

The hope I’d felt fizzled out. Maybe nothing I did could change the past.

Reading this, I felt both sad and oddly hopeful.

It was a strange mix—grief for what was lost, hope that maybe, just maybe, I could make a difference.

Sad because I still hadn’t managed to save my mom. Hopeful because the calls seemed to have an effect—they could change things in that timeline.

If I could just find the right words, the right moment, maybe I could tip the scales.

If I could come up with a better plan, could I really save her?

The question burned in my mind. I paced the room, thinking through every possibility, every angle.

I racked my brain, thinking and thinking, and finally came up with an idea.

It was a long shot, but it was all I had. I rehearsed my lines, practicing until I could say them without stuttering.

That night at eleven, my mom called again.

The phone rang right on schedule. I grabbed it before the second ring, heart pounding in my chest.

"Honey, I’m off my night shift. Can you come pick me up?"

Her voice was the same as always—tired, hopeful, a little bit sad. I swallowed hard, steeling myself.

When that familiar voice came through, my palms were sweating with nerves.

I wiped my hands on my jeans, forcing myself to stay calm. This was my chance.

This time, I didn’t hesitate. I said straight out, "Hello, is this Ms. Linda Mayfield?"

I tried to sound professional, like someone who made these kinds of calls every day.

She paused. "Yes, you are… How do you have my husband’s phone?"

Her suspicion was back, sharp as ever. I could almost see her narrowing her eyes, trying to figure me out.

"Your husband, Frank Hargrove, was in a car accident on his way to pick you up. He’s in the hospital right now."

The lie came out smoother than I expected. I winced, hoping it would keep her safe.

My mom panicked. "What? Is it serious? Which hospital?"

Her voice broke, fear overtaking suspicion. I felt a pang of guilt, but I pressed on.

My mind went blank—the hospitals in Toledo had changed names over the years, and I couldn’t think of one quickly. Plus, I worried that if I named a hospital, she’d rush out of the factory.

I racked my brain, but nothing came. I could hear her breathing, fast and shallow.

So I lied without blinking: "He’s unconscious, just got into the ambulance. We don’t know which hospital yet. Please wait at the plant, we’ll send a car to pick you up."

I tried to sound reassuring, like someone in charge. I prayed she’d believe me.

She agreed, then suddenly realized something: "Wait, how did you know I work at the factory?"

Her suspicion flared up again. I felt my stomach drop. Had I blown it?

I froze—yeah, how would I know? To her, I was just a stranger from the ambulance crew.

I stammered, searching for an answer. My mind raced, panic rising.

A few seconds later, I blurted, "Your husband told us before he passed out."

It was a weak excuse, but she seemed to buy it. I let out a shaky breath.

She finally relaxed. "Please, you have to save him! Our child is only two…"

Her voice was choked with tears, mixed with the sound of rain. It was heartbreaking.

I could hear her sobbing, the rain pounding on the roof. It was all too real, too raw. I wiped my own eyes, trying to stay strong.

I had no memory of my mom, but her blood ran in my veins. Her grief pierced right through me.

I felt a strange connection, like I was reaching across time to comfort her. For a moment, I wished I could step through the phone and hold her.

As a woman, I couldn’t sympathize with my dad, but I felt for her.

I understood her pain, her desperation. I wanted to scream at Dad for everything he’d done, but it wouldn’t change anything.

This foolish woman took love so seriously—her man cheated, and she still defended him. And what did she get?

She clung to hope, even when it was hopeless. It broke my heart.

He was off playing poker, ignoring her calls, leaving her to be murdered and dismembered by a psycho!

The injustice of it all made my blood boil. I wanted to make someone pay, but the world didn’t work that way.

Even after death, she couldn’t let go, calling again and again, not knowing her deadbeat husband was scared out of his mind.

Her love was a chain, binding her to a man who never deserved it. I wanted to shake her, to make her see the truth.

The more I thought about it, the sadder I felt. But I still reminded her: "Got it. But don’t hang up, just in case something comes up and we need to reach you."

I tried to sound calm, but my voice wavered. I needed her to stay put, to stay safe.

She quickly agreed: "Okay."

I could hear her sniffling, the rain still falling in the background. I wanted to reach through the phone and tell her it would all be okay.

For the next ten minutes, I kept her on the line.

I asked her about the weather, her shift, anything to keep her talking. Every second she stayed on the phone felt like a small victory.

She kept asking about my dad’s injuries, but I said as little as possible—I didn’t know any medical jargon, so the less I said, the better.

I dodged her questions, making up excuses. My heart raced every time she pressed for details.

She begged me over and over to save Frank, and kept asking which hospital he’d been taken to.

Her desperation was palpable. I felt guilty for lying, but I knew it was the only way to keep her safe.

Just as she was getting more worked up and I was running out of excuses…

I could hear her voice breaking, her words tumbling over each other. I searched for something—anything—to keep her calm.

A man’s voice came through on her end: "Hey, Linda, why aren’t you off yet?"

The voice was deep, friendly. I held my breath, waiting to see what would happen.

"Mr. Chen, something happened at home…"

Her voice faded, like she was covering the phone.

I strained to hear, my heart pounding. I felt like I was eavesdropping on fate itself.

A moment later, I heard a few muffled words: "I’ll take you… I know…"

The words were garbled, but the intent was clear. He was offering her a ride.

I was listening intently when the call cut out with a hard click.

The abruptness left me reeling. I stared at the phone, willing it to ring again.

Stunned, I stared at the phone and immediately tried to call back, but it was too late…

My fingers flew over the keypad, but the number was already gone. The silence was deafening.

Just like before, I couldn’t get through.

It was like the universe itself was conspiring to keep us apart.

This old Motorola from twenty years ago was a one-way line through time.

I realized I was powerless, trapped on the wrong side of history. All I could do was wait and hope.

My mom could call at a certain time, but I could never reach her.

The helplessness was crushing. I wanted to scream, to smash the phone, but I held back.

I was on edge, imagining all the things that could be happening on her end, but then it hit me… The man, Mr. Chen, was clearly her coworker, someone she knew well.

A flicker of hope sparked in my chest. Maybe he really was just a good guy, someone looking out for her.

If he agreed to take her home, that meant she was safe this time.

I clung to the thought, repeating it like a mantra. Maybe I’d finally changed something.

I glanced at my smartphone and computer, and searched again, but the information was the same as before.

No new articles, no updates. The past refused to budge.

Maybe the change hadn’t taken effect yet—maybe the timeline hadn’t shifted?

I tried to reassure myself, but doubt gnawed at me. What if nothing I did mattered?

So I lay down, telling myself I’d check again in the morning.

I closed my eyes, exhaustion dragging me under. I dreamed of rain and lost voices.

I only meant to rest my eyes, but I was so exhausted from all the late-night calls that I fell into a deep sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I woke up to sunlight streaming through the window, the city already humming with life.

I’d overslept.

I blinked, disoriented. For a moment, I wondered if it had all been a dream.

I stared at the sunlight outside for a moment, then quickly checked my phone.

The date glared back at me—March 8, 2025. Time was marching on, indifferent to my pain.

It was International Women’s Day, and I could hear vendors hawking their wares downstairs.

Their voices floated up through the open window—"Fresh flowers! Two bucks a bouquet!"—reminding me that life went on, even when yours felt frozen.

To save money, I rented a tiny studio in a run-down part of town. There was a supermarket and a barbecue stand downstairs, noisy day and night.

The smells of grilled meat and cheap beer drifted up, mingling with the city’s endless buzz. It wasn’t much, but it was home.

But right now, that noise gave me a strange sense of security.

I wrapped myself in a blanket, listening to the chaos below. It was a reminder that I was still here, still fighting.

Compared to the terrifying silence of the night, it was music to my ears.

I never thought I’d find comfort in the ordinary, but today, I did.

I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and, without even washing my face, opened my laptop again.

The screen glowed in the morning light. I typed in the search terms, my hands steady for once.

I searched for news of the dismemberment case from twenty years ago, but what I found left me completely disappointed.

The articles were the same as before—no new leads, no mention of Mr. Chen. It was like nothing had changed at all.

Everything had snapped back to the original version.

I felt a wave of frustration. Had all my efforts really been for nothing?

My mom’s death was a mystery, like a drop vanishing into the ocean, leaving no trace.

It stuck with me. Her life—gone. Swallowed by time. Her story, just... erased.