Fortunately, the gunshot had only grazed his shoulder.
While the doctor treated him, I sat in the waiting room.
My mind kept returning to one sentence.
Your son was alive for nearly six hours.
Six hours.
That meant there had been time to call me.
Time to tell me where he was.
Time to say goodbye.
But nobody had called.
When Patterson finally emerged, his arm was bandaged.
He sat opposite me.
"Tell me everything," I said.
He nodded slowly.
"On the night of the accident, David was transported to St. Mary's Medical Center. He had severe internal injuries, but he was conscious when the ambulance arrived."
I stared at him.
"Did he ask for me?"
Patterson's face tightened.
"Yes."
The room seemed to disappear.
"What did he say?"
"He asked the nurse to call his father."
I looked down at my hands.
"Did she?"
Patterson shook his head.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because someone intercepted the request."
I stood.
"Who?"
"An administrator at the hospital. She was connected to Blackridge."
I paced across the room.
"And you knew this?"
"Yes."
"All these years?"
"Yes."
I turned toward him.
"Then you let me bury my son without knowing he had asked for me?"
Patterson lowered his head.
"I was trying to keep you alive."
I laughed bitterly.
"That is what everyone keeps saying."
He reached into his coat and removed a folded piece of paper.
"This is a copy of the original hospital intake report."
I took it.
The document contained several handwritten notes.
One line had been highlighted.
Patient conscious. Requests family contact. Father: Arthur Bennett.
I couldn't breathe properly.
Below it was another note.
Patient states: Tell my father the key is not where he thinks it is.
I looked up.
"What key?"
Patterson shook his head.
"I don't know."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because I was ordered not to."
"By whom?"
He looked at me.
"Colonel Harrington."
I closed my eyes.
Even after his conviction, Harrington's influence continued to haunt every part of my life.
Patterson continued.
"David died at 4:20 a.m. The official report was altered at 6:15 a.m. The body was transferred before the hospital's morning staff arrived."
I looked at him.
"Who authorized that?"
"Chief Whitmore."
"But he was already connected to Blackridge."
"Exactly."
I sat down slowly.
There was one question I could barely bring myself to ask.
"Was David alone when he died?"
Patterson looked toward the window.
"No."
"Who was with him?"
"A woman."
I stared at him.
"Who?"
He hesitated.
Then he said:
"Eleanor."
I felt as though the floor had disappeared beneath me.
"My wife?"
Patterson nodded.
"She arrived shortly before David died."
I shook my head.
"That's impossible. She told me she was at home that night."
"She lied."
"Why?"
"Because David made her promise not to tell you."
I stood again.
"What did she know?"
Patterson reached into his pocket and removed a second photograph.
It showed Eleanor standing beside a hospital bed.
David was lying beneath a white sheet.
Her hand rested on his forehead.
I recognized the room.
It was the room where my son had spent his final hours.
I stared at the photograph until my eyes began to burn.
Patterson spoke quietly.
"Your wife was the last person David spoke to."
I looked at him.
"What were his last words?"
Patterson took a deep breath.
"He told her that the person responsible wasn't Harrington."
I swallowed.
"Then who?"
Patterson looked directly at me.
"He said the person who destroyed his life was someone inside your own family."
I returned home just before dawn.
I didn't sleep.
I sat at the kitchen table with Eleanor's old notebook open in front of me.
The house was silent.
Every object seemed to hold a memory.
The coffee cup she preferred.
The small vase beside the window.
The photograph of David standing in his graduation uniform.
I had spent seventeen years believing that Eleanor and I had shared everything.
Now I wondered how much of her life had been hidden from me.
I opened the jewelry box on the dresser.
Inside were several rings, a small silver bracelet, and the compass pendant from the photograph.
I picked it up.
The metal was cold.
Then I noticed something unusual.
The back of the pendant had a tiny seam.
I pressed it carefully.
A small compartment opened.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
My heart began to beat faster.
I unfolded it.
There were only six words.
The key is with your brother.
I stared at the sentence.
My brother.
For a moment, I couldn't understand.
I had one brother.
His name was Michael Bennett.
He had died twelve years earlier in a boating accident.
At least, that was what I had been told.
Michael had been younger than me by four years.
He had served in military intelligence before leaving the service and moving to Oregon.
We had not spoken much during the final years of his life.
After David died, Michael became distant.
He told me that I needed to stop investigating and accept what had happened.
I had considered it an act of concern.
Now I wondered whether he had been trying to protect himself.
I returned to the basement and searched through the old family records.
There was a folder containing documents from Michael's estate.
Most of his belongings had been distributed after his death.
But one item had never been collected.