The next Saturday, Daniel did not bring the mower.
He brought questions.
Walter was already outside when Daniel approached the porch.
“You're early.”
“You're awake.”
“I usually am.”
Daniel looked at the grass.
It had been cut perfectly.
Walter followed his gaze.
“I hired someone.”
Daniel frowned.
“Why?”
“Because you were beginning to think you owned the place.”
Daniel almost smiled.
Then he remembered the piece of red fabric in his pocket.
He had kept it all week.
He had not told his mother.
He had not told anyone.
“Mr. Bennett.”
Walter's expression changed.
“What?”
“I found something last week.”
“I know.”
Daniel stopped.
“You know?”
“I saw you.”
Walter lowered himself into the rocking chair.
Daniel remained standing.
“I found this.”
He held out the red cloth.
Walter stared at it.
For several seconds, he did not move.
Then he reached for it.
His fingers closed around the fabric.
“Where?”
“Under the maple tree.”
Walter shut his eyes.
Daniel waited.
“What is it?”
Walter opened his eyes.
“My son's jacket.”
Daniel swallowed.
“Your son?”
“Yes.”
“His name?”
Walter looked toward the street.
“Michael.”
Daniel remembered the letters.
The unopened envelopes.
The word Dad.
Michael.
The name made the pieces feel more real.
“How old was he?”
“Sixteen.”
“When did he leave?”
Walter looked at the cloth.
“He didn't.”
Daniel's stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
Walter's voice became quieter.
“Michael died.”
The yard seemed suddenly silent.
Even the traffic at the end of the street sounded distant.
“When?”
“October 14, 1999.”
Daniel stared at him.
The date.
The letter.
The stake.
The buried box.
All of it.
“That letter was from him?”
“No.”
Walter looked at Daniel.
“It was from the hospital.”
Daniel felt cold despite the heat.
Walter continued.
“Michael had been driving home from school. A truck ran a red light. He died before the ambulance arrived.”
Daniel did not know what to say.
Walter looked down at the cloth.
“He was wearing that jacket.”
“I'm sorry.”
Walter nodded.
“Everyone said that.”
Daniel sat on the porch step.
Walter remained in his chair.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally Daniel asked, “Then who keeps sending letters?”
Walter's face tightened.
“I don't know.”
“Your wife?”
“She died eight years ago.”
“Then who?”
Walter shook his head.
“I stopped opening them.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn't bear seeing his name.”
“But you said the letters weren't from him.”
“They all use his name.”
Daniel stared at him.
“How?”
Walter leaned forward.
“The first one came twenty years ago.”
He told Daniel about it.
A plain envelope.
No return address.
Inside was a photocopy of a photograph of Michael standing beside the maple tree.
On the back, someone had written a sentence.
He didn't die where you were told.
Daniel's mouth went dry.
“What?”
Walter looked at him.
“That was the beginning.”
He described the next letters.
One arrived every few months.
Some contained photographs.
Some contained dates.
One contained a newspaper clipping about the accident.
Another contained a photograph of the truck involved.
Then, six years after Michael's death, a letter arrived with only four words.
Ask about the second witness.
Walter had taken the letter to the police.
They told him the investigation was closed.
The driver had been convicted.
There was no reason to reopen it.
“So you stopped?”
“I tried.”
“Did you find the second witness?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else know?”
“Evelyn.”
Daniel looked toward the photograph through the window.
“She believed the letters.”
“She believed everything.”
Walter smiled sadly.
“She was better at hope than I was.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died without knowing the truth.”
Daniel looked at the red cloth.
“Maybe the letters were real.”
Walter's face hardened.
“Maybe.”
“Then why didn't you tell anyone?”
“Because every time I tried, another letter arrived.”
Daniel waited.
Walter leaned back.
“They always knew something only the police or our family should have known.”
A breeze moved through the maple leaves.
Daniel looked at the tree.
“What's buried there?”
Walter's eyes followed his.
“Nothing.”
“I found the box.”
Walter looked at him.
“You opened it?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because I buried it after Michael died.”
“What was inside?”
Walter's expression became distant.
“Things that belonged to him.”
Daniel was quiet.
Then he asked the question that had been waiting all week.
“Why bury them?”
Walter's eyes filled with tears, but his voice remained steady.
“Because I was angry.”
“At Michael?”
“No.”
Walter looked at the house.
“At myself.”
He explained that Michael had argued with him on the night before the accident.
Michael wanted to attend a party with friends.
Walter refused.
They shouted.
Michael told him he hated him.
Walter told Michael to get out.
Michael stormed away.
The next morning, he left for school without speaking to his father.
He never came home.
Daniel felt his throat tighten.
“You blamed yourself.”
“Every day.”
“You couldn't know.”
Walter looked at him.
“Parents always think they should have known.”
Daniel understood that.
His own father sometimes worked until midnight.
Sometimes Daniel worried that one day he would wake up and something would have happened.
He had never said that aloud.
Walter folded the red cloth carefully.
Then he looked at Daniel.
“Go home.”
Daniel stood.
At the gate, he stopped.
“Mr. Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“Someone still knows about Michael.”
Walter said nothing.
“Someone knows enough to keep sending those letters.”
“I know.”
“And they sent one this week.”
Walter reached into his pocket.
The white envelope was still there.
“Why haven't you opened it?”
Walter looked down.
“Because I already know what it will say.”
Daniel waited.
Walter finally turned the envelope over.
On the back was the same handwriting.
Dad.
Beneath it was a second line.
This time, Daniel could see it.
I know who was driving.
Daniel's heart began pounding.
Walter folded the envelope into his fist.
Then a car stopped across the street.
It was an old dark-green sedan.
The engine remained running.
Neither Daniel nor Walter moved.
The driver's window lowered halfway.
A man inside looked toward the porch.
Walter stood.
His face changed.
Daniel had never seen fear like that.
Walter whispered one word.
“Michael.”
The sedan pulled away.
Daniel stared after it.
“You know that man?”
Walter did not answer.
He was looking at the road long after the car disappeared.
Then he turned toward Daniel.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, “I'm going to open that letter.”
Click Here to continue read next: PART4: When Walter Finally Opened the Letter, the Truth Inside Connected the Accident, the Buried Box, and the Stranger Watching Their House
The Mower Suddenly Stopped Beneath the Tall Grass, and the Old Man on the Porch Stood Up as Though He Had Seen a Ghost
Part 3 of 16
