Chapter 6 - THE SECRET MY HUSBAND TOOK TO HIS GRAVE
My husband died on a rainy November evening when a pickup truck crossed the center line and struck his car.
That was what the police report said.
That was what the insurance company said.
That was what I had believed for nine years.
Now I wasn't sure what to believe.
Thomas had been fifty-eight.
He had taught American history for thirty-two years, coached the middle school debate team, and never once received a speeding ticket.
He was the least mysterious person I'd ever known.
Or so I thought.
Rachel sat across from me at the kitchen table.
"Mom, did Dad ever mention Victor Hale?"
"No."
"What about Samuel Whitmore?"
I shook my head.
"Never."
She looked toward the garage.
"Did Dad keep old paperwork?"
"Boxes of it."
"Then we should look."
We spent the afternoon sorting through dusty cardboard cartons.
Old tax returns.
Lesson plans.
Photographs.
Receipts for lawn equipment.
A collection of handwritten notes from students who had graduated decades earlier.
Nothing unusual.
Then Rachel discovered a metal cash box beneath a stack of yearbooks.
It was locked.
I recognized it immediately.
Thomas had kept it in his desk.
I hadn't opened it since his death.
"Do you have the key?" Rachel asked.
I shook my head.
Then I remembered the small brass key on his old watch chain.
I retrieved it from my jewelry drawer.
It fit.
Inside the box were several envelopes, a photograph, and a small black USB drive.
The photograph showed Thomas standing beside a man I didn't recognize.
They were outside a courthouse.
On the back, Thomas had written:
Sam Whitmore — September 2016.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"Samuel Whitmore."
Rachel leaned closer.
"The girls' grandfather."
I nodded.
Beneath the photograph was an envelope addressed to me.
My name appeared in Thomas's familiar handwriting.
I opened it with shaking hands.
Margaret,
If you're reading this because someone has come asking questions about Samuel Whitmore, please believe me when I say I never wanted to put you in danger.
There are things I should have told you years ago.
I thought silence would protect our family.
I was wrong.
Sam and I discovered something that powerful people were willing to kill to keep hidden.
I helped him preserve the evidence.
If anyone asks about the photographs, the recordings, or the ledger, do not give them anything.
Take everything to someone you trust outside the county.
And Margaret, please forgive me.
I didn't know how to tell you what I had done.
Love always,
Tom
I read the letter three times.
Then handed it to Rachel.
She finished reading and looked up.
"Mom."
I could barely speak.
"Your father knew."
Rachel nodded.
"He knew something."
We examined the USB drive.
Neither of us wanted to connect it to our personal computers, so we called Detective Brooks.
She arrived with a digital-forensics investigator.
After reading Thomas's letter, she sat quietly for a long moment.
"Mrs. Ellis, your husband may have been involved in an earlier investigation."
"Was he working with Samuel Whitmore?"
"Possibly."
"Was he killed?"
Brooks looked at the letter again.
"We don't know. But this gives us reason to review his death."
I swallowed.
"Then please find out."
The forensic investigator took custody of the drive and documented the cash box and its contents.
That evening, Brooks called.
The USB contained encrypted files.
Investigators were working to determine whether they could access them lawfully and safely.
But one folder had an unencrypted label.
PROJECT NIGHTJAR.
The name meant nothing to me.
Until Rachel remembered something.
"Dad had a bird book."
I looked at her.
"What?"
"When I was little, he used to read me this old field guide. He'd point out birds and make up stories about them."
I frowned.
"Your father loved birds."
"Yes, but there was one he always talked about."
She paused.
"The nightjar."
A memory surfaced.
Thomas sitting beside our fireplace.
Rachel curled against his chest.
His voice telling her that nightjars were difficult to see because they blended into the darkness.
I walked toward the bookshelf.
The field guide was still there.
Its spine was cracked.
Several pages had been repaired with yellowing tape.
I opened it.
A folded sheet of paper slipped onto the floor.
Rachel picked it up.
It contained a series of numbers and letters.
At the bottom was a handwritten sentence.
THE FIRST KEY IS WHERE THE TWINS BEGIN.
Rachel stared at it.
"What does that mean?"
I shook my head.
Then I noticed something written beneath the sentence.
Two names.
Lily. Lucy.
My heart stopped.
Thomas had died nine years earlier.
The twins were only three.
He couldn't possibly have known them.
Unless those names meant something else.
Rachel looked at me.
"Mom, maybe Lily and Lucy weren't the names he meant."
I studied the paper.
Then a memory struck me.
Thomas had once told me about two sisters who attended his school decades earlier.
They were identical twins.
Their names were Lily and Lucy.
And their last name—
I grabbed the edge of the table.
"Whitmore."
Rachel stared at me.
"What?"
"Samuel Whitmore had sisters."
"How do you know?"
"Your father mentioned them years ago."
I looked down at the paper again.
Then I saw the final line.
It was written in a different color of ink.
IF SAM IS DEAD, TRUST HIS DAUGHTER.
I whispered, "Anna."
Rachel leaned over my shoulder.
But before either of us could say another word, the front doorbell rang.
I looked through the window.
A police cruiser sat outside.
Officer Grant stood on my porch.
He was holding an envelope.
When I opened the door, he gave me a solemn look.
"Mrs. Ellis, I'm afraid I have some bad news."
"What happened?"
He held out the envelope.
"Detective Brooks has been removed from the investigation."
I stared at him.
"Why?"
May you like
Grant lowered his voice.
"Because someone found out what was on your husband's USB drive."
