Chapter 9 - The Uncle Who Disappeared
Andrew remembered Uncle Thomas as laughter and cigarettes.
A man who let him steer the boat.
A man Charles called irresponsible.
When Andrew was twelve, Margaret told the boys Thomas had died overseas.
No funeral.
No grave Andrew had ever visited.
He had been a child.
Children accept the architecture adults build around them.
At Margaret’s house, Andrew walked inside without knocking.
“Thomas.”
Margaret looked up from the dining table.
Renee remained near the doorway.
“What about him?”
“He’s alive.”
Margaret closed her eyes.
That was all the confirmation Andrew needed.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I truly don’t.”
“Why did you tell me he died?”
“Charles told everyone.”
“And you just went along?”
“He disappeared.”
“People disappear without becoming dead.”
Margaret stood.
“He had reasons.”
“Peter Keene?”
Her expression changed.
“You know.”
“Apparently everyone knows except me.”
Margaret looked suddenly older.
“Thomas discovered Charles was stealing.”
“From the company?”
“From investors. Partners. Land trusts. Anyone he believed wouldn’t fight back.”
“Peter helped him?”
“Eventually.”
Renee said, “My father was working with Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Thomas wanted to expose Charles. Peter was afraid. Then Charles learned they were meeting.”
Andrew stared.
“So Thomas ran.”
“Charles gave him money and a choice. Leave the country or be implicated with Peter.”
“And you told your sons he died.”
“I thought that was safer.”
“For whom?”
Margaret didn’t answer.
Andrew walked away from her.
His entire childhood now felt staged.
“Was Thomas the man Sophie heard?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Thomas would be nearly seventy. Gabriel is sixty-seven. Either could fit her description.”
Renee asked, “Did Thomas know my real name?”
“Yes.”
“Would he know the rain song?”
Margaret shook her head.
“Probably not.”
Gabriel remained more likely.
Andrew looked at his mother.
“What happened after Peter died?”
“Thomas vanished. Gabriel stayed with Charles.”
“Why?”
“To survive.”
“Everyone keeps using survival to describe cowardice.”
Margaret flinched.
Andrew regretted it, but not enough to apologize.
Renee asked, “Where was Thomas supposed to go?”
“Canada first.”
“Then?”
“I never knew.”
“Did Charles really let him leave?”
Margaret went quiet.
Andrew saw fear.
“Mom.”
“Years later, Charles received postcards.”
“From Thomas?”
“They were blank except for a small drawing of a lighthouse.”
Renee frowned.
“A code?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you have them?”
Margaret walked upstairs.
She returned with a wooden box.
Inside were eleven postcards.
Maine.
Nova Scotia.
Ireland.
Scotland.
Each had the same tiny lighthouse sketch.
Andrew turned one over.
The handwriting looked familiar.
Not Thomas’s.
His father’s.
“These aren’t from Thomas.”
Margaret frowned.
“What?”
“Dad wrote these.”
“I would know Charles’s handwriting.”
“So would I.”
Andrew placed two side by side.
“The T. The way he crosses it.”
Margaret stared.
Her face crumpled.
“He sent them to himself.”
Renee whispered, “To convince you Thomas was alive.”
Margaret sat down.
For the first time, she looked terrified.
“What if Charles didn’t let him go?”
Andrew felt the room darken.
His phone buzzed.
Another unknown text.
This one contained only an address.
An abandoned marina in Bridgeport.
And a photograph.
The image was recent.
Gabriel Shaw stood beside a boat storage building.
Next to him was an elderly man with silver hair.
On the man’s right hand was a distinctive missing little finger.
Andrew remembered Uncle Thomas losing that finger in a woodworking accident before Andrew was born.
His throat tightened.
“He is alive.”
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Beneath the photograph was one sentence.
BRING MARA. COME ALONE.
