Chapter 9 - ELEVEN MONTHS OF WRONG ANSWERS
Silas had told himself a hundred versions of the story of Elena's death. She had been driving too fast. The road had been wet. The other driver had crossed into her lane. Bad luck had taken an ordinary Tuesday and turned it into a lifetime. He had repeated those explanations until they hardened into something he could survive.
The investigation had found an ordinary traffic collision, not proof of a planned killing. Margaret insisted he respect that fact. Still, new questions were emerging about where Elena had been headed, who knew of her meeting, and why security logs no longer matched the calendar entries her staff remembered.
The independent auditor, Owen Price, met with Margaret and a licensed investigator. He described waiting for Elena at a coffee shop near the freight district. A large man with a scarred chin arrived instead. He said Elena had reconsidered her concerns and wanted no further review. Owen found the instruction odd because Elena had sounded urgent by phone that morning.
“Did you contact her to confirm?” Margaret asked.
“I tried. No answer. A few hours later the news broke about the crash.”
“Why didn't you report the meeting?”
Owen stared at the table. “I told a detective that someone had come in her place. I didn't know the man's name, and nobody asked me to identify him. Later I was scared of what would happen if I pushed.”
Silas read the interview summary that evening with an ache so fierce he had to put the paper down. Elena had asked him to attend a meeting about the medical shipments. He had refused. He remembered the exact words: Not every problem needs to come through my office.
The last thing she'd said before leaving was, Maybe this one does.
For months he had tried not to remember her face when she spoke.
He drove to the cemetery before dusk. The path was wet from rain, the stone beneath his feet slick. Elena's grave had a small ceramic star Milo had painted with Rosa. Silas knelt beside it and spoke words he could not have managed a year earlier.
“I failed you,” he whispered. “Not because I didn't love you. Because I thought loving you could wait until my work was done.”
Wind moved through the trees. No answer came. He stayed until the light began to fade, then returned to the house because Milo had asked him to read a bedtime story in sign, and that was one promise he could still keep.
At home he found the boy waiting on the rug with a book about a fox who couldn't find his way through a forest. The pages included illustrated signs and pictures. Silas stumbled through the story, missing several handshapes and inventing one by mistake. Milo laughed, corrected him, and made him repeat the troublesome word until they both collapsed against the pillows.
Rosa paused at the doorway. She didn't interrupt. Her eyes filled at the sight of father and son enjoying something as ordinary as a story.
Later Milo asked MOM COME BACK?
Silas felt the familiar reflex to say something comforting and untrue. Then he remembered Amélie's advice: answer the child honestly, with age-appropriate language and room for questions.
He shook his head and signed MOM DIED. CANNOT COME BACK.
Milo's face crumpled. Silas held out his arms and waited. The boy climbed into his lap, crying silently at first, then in small, aching sobs. Silas did not tell him to stop. He held him until the tears eased.
Khloe called as Milo was falling asleep. Silas answered from the hallway. She could hear the exhaustion in his voice.
“Were you with him?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I told him his mother isn't coming back.”
“That must have been hard.”
“He cried.”
“He might cry every time you tell the truth. That doesn't make truth wrong.”
He leaned against the wall. “I don't know how you say things that simple.”
“My sister says I talk too much to begin with.”
He laughed softly. Then the laugh died. “The investigator spoke to someone who saw Victor before Elena's crash.”
Khloe went still. “What does it mean?”
“It means I don't know what happened. I can't promise myself it was an accident anymore, but I can't call it murder without evidence.”
“Then let professionals investigate it.”
“I will.”
She hesitated. “Silas, do you ever worry that your old business made all of this possible?”
The question landed heavily. His legitimate shipping empire had grown alongside the criminal practices his father handed him: threats used to win contracts, payments to keep competitors away, men like Victor hired because they frightened people. Silas had told himself he'd made the business cleaner. He had shut down some routes and removed certain associates. But he'd retained too many people who treated intimidation as ordinary management.
“Yes,” he said. “Every day now.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“I've authorized an independent audit. Margaret says we may need to disclose things that expose me, too. I've agreed.”
Khloe was quiet. Then she said, “That's a beginning. Not a clean slate.”
“I know.”
Silas looked toward the bedroom door. “If I have to choose between keeping my empire and being Milo's father, I know the answer now.”
Khloe wanted to believe him. She also knew how easily powerful men made promises while they were frightened. She didn't say yes to any future. She only told him she hoped he'd continue doing the difficult work when no one was watching.
The following morning, the investigators reported that a security contractor's vehicle had appeared on traffic-camera footage near Elena's route before the crash. The image did not establish an assault, but it contradicted statements that none of Victor's men had been in the area. The police agreed to review the new material in connection with the previous investigation.
Margaret warned Silas to say nothing publicly until the facts were checked. Victor's lawyers had denied wrongdoing and accused Costello executives of fabricating a convenient scapegoat. The case would take time, and outcomes were uncertain.
Silas listened, jaw tense. Then a call arrived from Milo's school, where the boy was making a supervised introductory visit with Rosa and a certified interpreter.
The administrator sounded frightened.
“Mr. Costello, a man came to the front desk claiming he had written permission to collect Milo. Our staff refused because he isn't on the approved list.”
Silas gripped the phone. “Who is the man?”
“He left before security could speak with him.”
“Did anyone see his face?”
“Yes. We have a name from his identification.”
Silas closed his eyes.
May you like
“Victor Sterling,” she said.
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