PART 4 – THE SCREAM IN THE NIGHT
The glaring headlights of a car cut through the rain and plunged the kitchen into a dazzling white light. The intruder cursed softly, turned abruptly, and jumped back out through the broken kitchen window into the garden with a swift motion.
I remained sitting breathlessly on the floor, the glass bottle still clenched tightly in my hand. Outside, the tires of a car screeched as it drove away at high speed. Silence returned, but fear continued to pulse through my veins.
Who was this man? And what did he mean by the words: “Your father wasn't a hero”?
Trembling, I stood up and walked to the window. The rain tapped against the damaged pane. On the driveway, no one else was to be seen except the wet cobblestones and the cold wind whistling through the cracks. My phone, lying somewhere on the living room table, was still connected, but the line was dead. My brother had hung up.
I walked back into the living room, let myself drop onto the sofa, and stared at the red box on the coffee table. It felt as if the box was calling to me, as if it contained the answers to all the questions my family had hidden from me all these years.
My father had been a respected businessman. Everyone had said so. But why would someone break in to steal a simple red box? What on earth was inside it?
With trembling fingers, I reached out and touched the lid. There was no lock, but it fit tightly. I applied pressure and pushed the lid open. A light, musty odor of old paper and dried flowers drifted up.
Inside there was no jewelry, no money, no valuable possessions.
There were only old letters, some black-and-white photographs, and a small, red-bound notebook. I took out the top letter. The paper had yellowed over time. The handwriting belonged to my father.
I began to read, and with every line I read, my world collapsed a little further.
“If you are reading this,” it was written there, “it means that I am no longer here and the truth I have hidden for years has come to light. Forgive me... I had no other choice.”
What had he done? What secret could weigh so heavily that it had cost my mother her life and driven my brother to flee? I turned the letter over and took the photos in hand. The first picture showed my father, younger than I had ever known him, standing next to an unknown man in a dark room. And on the back of the photo, a date from fifty years ago was noted...
along with a name that made my blood run cold.
