Chapter 5 - Daniel PriceMy father did not mean buried literally.
At least that was what he insisted.
We were sitting in my kitchen at eleven thirty that night while two police cruisers periodically passed outside. Denise had taken Lily upstairs and stayed with her until she fell asleep.
Mom came with Dad.
Rebecca did not.
She claimed she needed to get Sophie home.
I suspected the real reason was simpler.
She was afraid.
“Daniel Price was Michael’s business partner,” Dad said.
“The one you said stole the investor money?”
Dad nodded.
According to the public version of the story, Michael Bennett had been the mastermind and Daniel Price the lesser partner.
According to Dad, that was backwards.
“Daniel controlled the accounts,” he said. “Michael handled investors.”
“Did you have proof?”
“Michael said he did.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“No.”
Mom sat at my kitchen island, both hands wrapped around untouched tea.
“What happened to Daniel?”
Dad looked sick.
“A week after Michael came to me, Daniel vanished.”
“Like Michael?”
“No.”
Dad swallowed.
“His car was found near Lake Travis.”
No body was recovered.
Police suspected Daniel had fled.
The case eventually went cold.
“Why would Michael mention him now?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
“Then why did you say you buried him?”
Dad stared at me.
“Because I helped bury evidence.”
The room went quiet.
Years earlier, Michael had left a duffel bag at the hunting cabin.
Dad found it after Michael disappeared.
Inside were financial records.
A laptop.
And a bloodstained shirt.
Mom whispered, “Richard…”
“I panicked.”
“You destroyed it?”
“I burned the shirt. I threw the laptop into the lake.”
I stared at him.
“You found blood on your brother’s clothing and destroyed evidence.”
“I thought I was protecting him.”
“From murder?”
“I didn't know anyone was dead.”
“You knew enough.”
He looked away.
I understood something then.
My father wasn't a monster.
That would have been easier.
He was a man who had spent fifteen years making one cowardly decision after another, each one justified by the consequences of the one before it.
Protect Michael.
Protect the company.
Protect Rebecca.
Protect Mom from knowing.
Protect me from consequences I had never agreed to avoid.
And every act of protection created another victim.
I went upstairs to check on Lily.
She was sleeping sideways across my bed.
Denise sat in the chair beside her.
“You okay?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Good answer.”
I almost smiled.
She stood.
“Police want to talk to Lily tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“They'll use someone trained in child interviews.”
“I know.”
Denise touched my shoulder.
“Don't coach her. Don't ask her to repeat the story ten times. Let professionals do it once.”
“I won't.”
She looked at my face.
“You're thinking about blaming yourself.”
“I brought her there.”
“You brought your daughter to a birthday party. That's not the mistake.”
I nodded.
After Denise left, I found Mom downstairs standing beside the window.
“I should have protected her,” she said.
“You didn't know.”
“I knew Rebecca was becoming controlling.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“I kept telling myself she was stressed.”
Mom looked at me.
“Do you know why?”
“Why what?”
“Why we always protected her?”
I waited.
“Because she scared us.”
That wasn't the answer I expected.
“Rebecca?”
“She was always so fragile when consequences came.”
Mom sat.
“If she failed, she couldn't eat. If someone criticized her, she wouldn't sleep. When she was seventeen and your father grounded her, she threatened to hurt herself.”
I said nothing.
“We became afraid that saying no might destroy her.”
“So you taught her that threatening collapse could control everyone.”
Mom flinched.
“Yes.”
It was painful.
But it was true.
“Why didn't you do that with me?”
She gave me a sad smile.
“Because you always seemed strong.”
I hated that answer more than I expected.
Children who appear strong often aren't given less pain.
They're simply given less help.
The next morning, Lily woke before six.
“Daddy?”
I opened my eyes.
She was sitting beside me.
“Yeah?”
“Is Aunt Rebecca mad at me?”
“No.”
“I think she is.”
I sat up.
“Even if she is, that isn't your job to fix.”
“She said Sophie won't have a mommy if I tell.”
My blood turned cold.
“When did she say that?”
“Yesterday.”
“Before or after she grabbed you?”
Lily looked down.
“Before.”
“What exactly did she say?”
Lily twisted the blanket.
“She said if I told Grandpa about Grandma’s pills, police would take her away and Sophie wouldn't have a mommy.”
I fought to keep my face neutral.
“What did you say?”
“I said you told me secrets that make my tummy hurt aren't safe secrets.”
Claire had taught Lily that.
Not me.
Our family rule.
Surprises are temporary.
Secrets about presents are okay.
Secrets about touching, hurting, threats, or things that make your stomach hurt must always be told.
I had forgotten how many times Claire practiced it with her.
But Lily hadn't.
“What happened then?”
“She got mad.”
“Did she hit you?”
Lily nodded.
Once.
That tiny movement destroyed the last uncertainty.
“Where?”
She touched her cheek.
“Open hand?”
Another nod.
“Did she say anything?”
“She said, ‘Look what you made me do.’”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
Then I hugged her.
“You did not make her do anything.”
“Will Sophie hate me?”
“No.”
“But if police take Aunt Rebecca—”
“Listen to me.”
I held both her hands.
“You are responsible for telling the truth. Grown-ups are responsible for what they do after that.”
She considered this.
Then asked the most five-year-old question imaginable.
“Can I have pancakes?”
I laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours.
“Yes.”
We made blueberry pancakes.
At nine, a detective arrived with a child-forensic interviewer.
Lily spoke with them without me in the room.
That hurt.
But it mattered.
While I waited, another detective asked about the threatening photograph.
I showed him the USB.
His expression changed when I explained what was on it.
He asked to take it.
I agreed after making a copy.
By noon, the case was no longer merely about Rebecca striking Lily.
Investigators contacted financial-crimes detectives.
Then a federal agency.
Then another.
I knew things had escalated when two people in business clothes arrived and spent nearly an hour speaking privately with Dad.
At 2:15 p.m., Rebecca called me.
I almost didn't answer.
Then I did.
“What?”
Her voice was shaking.
“Ethan, you need to come to my house.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Talk to your attorney.”
“This isn't about me.”
“What is it?”
“Sophie found something.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“A box.”
“Where?”
“In the attic.”
“Call the police.”
“I did.”
That surprised me.
“What’s inside?”
Rebecca started crying.
Not polished tears.
Not manipulative tears.
Panic.
“Pictures.”
“Of what?”
“Dad.”
I looked toward my father, who was speaking to a detective across the room.
“Pictures of Dad doing what?”
Rebecca struggled to breathe.
“With Daniel Price.”
“When?”
“The night Daniel disappeared.”
My blood went cold.
“What are they doing?”
There was a long silence.
May you like
Then Rebecca whispered:
“Putting something into the trunk of Dad’s truck.”
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