Page 95 of Our Darkest Summer

For a second, I just sat there, staring, like the thing was about to snap shut and laugh in my face. I swallowed hard and pulled the door open. The hinges groaned, and inside, a thick stack of paper sat neatly piled.

I grabbed the documents, placing them onto the mattress. At first glance, it was standard casework, but then I saw the name.

I flipped through the papers. Kinsley and Thomas were right, Pops had kept investigating.

My pulse pounded.

Presumed dead?I scanned the notes.

A small notebook slipped from the pile, flipping open as it landed on the mattress.

My heart skipped a beat.

This was only a few days before he died.

I turned to the next page, but it was empty.

I dug through the pile and pulled out a thin folder labeled,Jones-Bowman. The first article was about the incident. I already saw that one. But the other was new to me. A man in a firefighter uniform held a little boy’s hand—the kid couldn’t be more than two years old.

Under the photo it said:Father and son welcome you to Bellford Fire Station - Philip Joseph Bowman and Ethan Bowman

Holy shit. Eric?

I took a photo of everything and sent it to Thomas. Then my gaze shifted to a yellowed envelope. No recipient, no address.Strange.

I unfolded the paper.

I barely registered the sound of my breath hitching. My dad? He sent Lizzie home? But we asked him about it. The words blurred together into a tangled mess of ink.

I shoved off the bed.My dad. Why didn’t he tell us? Why did he lie?I glanced at the empty bird cage at the opposite wall, an old habit I couldn’t shake. The walls of my room suddenly felt too tight, the air too thick.

I grabbed the letter and stormed out of the room.

My dad was downstairs, reading at the kitchen table, sipping his tea. I slammed down the letter in front of him.

“Is this true?” My voice shook. His eyes flicked to mine, then to the letter, his brows creasing. I watched as his fingers curled around the edges of the paper.

“What is this?” he asked, fixing his glasses.

My pulse pounded in my ears. “It’s Pops’. It’s about you… You lied to us,” I whispered. “Connor and Thomas… they came here to talk to you. To ask for your help, and—” I hiccupped. “You were the one who sent her home.”

My dad paled, his fingers twitching around the paper as he avoided my gaze. Then he set the letter down, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Sit down,” he said, waiting until I did. “I lived the past twelve years in regret because of the decision I made that day. I was young, new to the job…” He shook his head. “It’s not an excuse, it’s a fact. I made a mistake.” He nodded as if reminding himself. “A mistake that might have ruined the life of a family.” He exhaled, smoothing over the aged paper. “That’s why I started working on it again.”

My brows arched. “What do you mean?”

He wet his lips. “After the boys came to me, I reached out to an old friend at the FBI.”

I stilled. The FBI?

“She was returning a favor.” He hesitated, rubbing his jaw. “It’s not official. She’s just… taking a look.”

A favor.

“What can she even do if the case is closed?” I asked, and my dad leaned back on his chair.

“The case is technically closed, but she can still access the files. She ran Lizzie’s name through financial databases, facial recognition, border security records… if she resurfaced anywhere, even under a different name, it’ll leave a trail.”