David sat down slowly.
For several seconds, he couldn't take his eyes off the photograph.
His father looked exactly as he remembered him: broad shoulders, dark hair beginning to gray, and the same serious expression that had made strangers instinctively straighten their backs.
But there was something wrong with the picture.
The date printed on the back was six years after Thomas Carter's reported death.
David turned it over.
“Where was this taken?”
“An airfield outside Norfolk, Virginia.”
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
David looked at Victoria.
“You're telling me our father has been alive for fourteen years?”
“I'm telling you someone photographed a man who looks exactly like him.”
“That's not an answer.”
“I don't have a better one.”
David stood.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Victoria hesitated.
“Because I didn't know whether the photograph was real.”
“And now?”
“Now someone is willing to threaten your family to keep us from investigating it.”
David walked toward the window.
He remembered the last morning he had seen his father.
Thomas had stood in the driveway wearing an old navy jacket, holding a paper coffee cup. He had told David to take care of Victoria while he was away.
Three days later, the family received news that his vehicle had been found near a coastal highway.
There had been no body.
No funeral with an open casket.
Only a folded flag and a certificate of death.
David had been twenty-four.
Victoria had been twenty-eight.
They had buried a man without ever seeing him again.
“Did you ever believe he was alive?” David asked.
Victoria looked down.
“I wanted to.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
She took a breath.
“Yes.”
David turned.
“How long?”
“Since I became involved in the investigation.”
He laughed bitterly.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“You had a picture.”
“I got the picture last night.”
“And you waited until today?”
“I came here as soon as I could.”
David shook his head.
“You've spent years making decisions for everyone. You did it when Dad disappeared. You did it when Mom—”
He stopped.
Victoria looked at him.
“When Mom what?”
David stared at her.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, David. Finish that sentence.”
He looked away.
Their mother, Eleanor Carter, had died three years after Thomas disappeared. At least, that was what the family had been told.
Victoria had handled the arrangements.
She had taken responsibility for the funeral, the paperwork, and the estate.
David had been overseas at the time, serving as a civilian aviation contractor. He had returned home to an empty house and a closed casket.
He had never questioned his sister.
Until now.
“Did you ever see her body?” David asked.
Victoria didn't answer.
His face changed.
“Victoria.”
“I was told the identification had been completed.”
“By whom?”
She looked down.
“An investigator named Robert Hale.”
David stepped backward.
“You never saw her?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know she's dead?”
Victoria's eyes filled with something that looked dangerously close to regret.
“I don't.”