Page 35

The familiar ache bloomed in Sheila's chest at the mention of her mother's murder. "So which was it? Were you trying to build an airtight case, or were you afraid of retaliation?"
"Both. I was afraid for Mom, for you, for Natalie, for all of us."
Sheila studied his face, trying to read the truth there. "I want to believe you. I really do."
She regretted the words as soon as she saw her father wince, but there was no taking them back now. And perhaps it was best to be honest—not just with what she was thinking, but with how she was really feeling, too.
Gabriel pushed his chair back and stood, beginning to pace despite his bad knee. "You think I didn't want justice—especially after what happened to your mother? That I didn't lie awake at night thinking about what they'd gotten away with?"
"I think," Sheila said carefully, "that you've spent a lot of years justifying decisions you made out of fear. Telling yourself you were protecting us, when maybe you were just protecting yourself."
Her father stopped pacing, leaning heavily on a filing cabinet. The late sunlight caught the silver in his hair, and for a moment he looked older than she'd ever seen him.
"The night before your mother died," he said quietly, "she confronted me about the files. Asked me why I hadn't done anything. I told her I was working on it, building a case. She didn't believe me."
"So she decided to report it herself," Sheila said. It wasn't a question.
"She said someone had to stand up to them. That evil thrives when good people do nothing." His voice caught. "I begged her to wait, to let me handle it my way. We argued…" He swallowed hard. "It was our last conversation."
Sheila felt cold despite the stuffy room. She'd always imagined her father as a paragon of virtue, a hero. But was he? Her mind told her that, no matter how much time he'd had, he never would've acted to stop the money laundering.
But then again, if he had tried to expose the corruption, would he even be alive today? Or would he, too, have been taken out?
"Just tell me this," she said carefully. "When you transferred out of Internal Affairs, when you became sheriff, started a new life... was it about protecting us from the people who killed Mom? Or was it about running away from what you'd failed to do?"
Gabriel looked stricken. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. "I… I don't know. That's the most honest answer I can give you. Maybe it was both."
Sheila stood, needing to move, to process this. "All these years you've been telling me about justice, about doing what's right no matter the cost. But when it really mattered, when you had the chance to expose real corruption… it feels like you were just taking the easy way out." She felt tears gathering in her eyes. She hated this conversation, hated how she was feeling and how she was making her father feel, but they had to air this out. It was the only way forward.
"There was nothing easy about it." His voice was earnest, desperate. "You think I don't know I failed? That I don't wake up every night wondering what would've happened if I'd done the right thing? That I don't wish it had been me who was killed instead of your mother?"
"And now?" Sheila asked. "Are you here helping me because you want justice? Or because you're trying to make up for your failure?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with decades of unspoken truths.
Gabriel stared at his hands, and for a moment Sheila thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, sorrowful.
"When your mother died, something in me... broke. I convinced myself that staying quiet, keeping you kids safe, was the right thing to do. The only thing to do."
"And now?"
"Now I see what a coward I was." He gestured at the files spread across the table. "All these families destroyed by corruption—the mining accidents that weren't really accidents, the investigations buried, the lives ruined. It's the same kind of thing. And I can't help wondering where we'd be if I'd just listened to your mother. What's the point of safety if it means living a lie?"
Sheila sank back into her chair, studying her father's face. She wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that he'd changed. But doubt nagged at her.
"How do I know you won't do it again?" she asked. "When things get difficult, when the pressure builds—how do I know you won't choose the easy path?"
"Because this time I have nothing left to lose." He met her eyes steadily. "My wife is dead. Natalie's dead. You barely trust me, and for good reason. All I have left is the chance to make this right, no matter what it costs me. I owe your mother that much."
Sheila watched him return to his research, noting how his shoulders sagged under the weight of his confession. Part of her wanted to comfort him, to say she understood. But another part—the part that had spent years idolizing him, believing in his principles—felt betrayed all over again.
"I need some air," Sheila said abruptly, standing. She couldn't look at her father, couldn't process any more revelations about his past right now. Without waiting for his response, she walked out of the records room, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.
She found herself in the building's small break room. The ancient couch against the wall had seen better days, its fabric worn smooth by decades of county employees seeking rest during long shifts. Sheila sank into it, the springs creaking beneath her.
Exhaustion crashed over her suddenly. She'd hardly slept the past few days, running instead on coffee and adrenaline. Now, with her world tilted sideways by her father's confession, the fatigue felt overwhelming.
I'll just rest my eyes for a minute, she thought, lying down on the couch. Just long enough to clear my head...