The coordinates led me nearly forty miles into the mountains.
The farther I drove, the worse the road became. Snow swallowed the shoulders, and pine branches scraped across the windshield whenever the wind bent them low enough. I kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other near my radio, though I knew there was almost no chance of reaching anyone through the damaged communications network.
I passed the same abandoned gas station twice before realizing the road had curved back on itself. The storm had erased nearly every landmark. Then, just after three in the morning, I saw a single yellow light between the trees.
The house was smaller than I expected.
It sat at the end of a narrow private road, half buried beneath snow. No Christmas decorations. No vehicles. No smoke from the chimney. Just one illuminated window on the second floor.
I stopped twenty yards from the porch and shut off the engine.
Nothing moved.
I stepped out with my weapon drawn.
The cold struck through my uniform immediately. Snow crunched beneath my boots as I approached the front door.
It was unlocked.
I pushed it open.
“Mom?”
My voice sounded ridiculous inside the empty house.
There was no answer.
The entryway smelled faintly of cedar and old paper. A lamp burned in the hallway. On a table sat a cup of coffee that was still warm.
Someone had been waiting.
I moved room by room, checking every doorway.
The kitchen was empty.
The living room was empty.
A small office contained a desk, several filing cabinets, and an old photograph pinned to the wall.
I stepped closer.
It was me.
I was perhaps eight years old, sitting on my mother's lap beside a Christmas tree.
My father stood behind us.
Linda wasn't there.
Neither was Jason.
I stared at the photograph until something about it bothered me.
My mother wasn't looking at the camera.
She was looking at my father.
And my father was looking at her with an expression I had never seen in any family photograph.
Fear.
I turned the photograph over.
A handwritten sentence covered the back.
If Becca comes here, tell her the truth before they reach her.
My pulse quickened.
The handwriting was unmistakably my mother's.
I searched the desk.
Inside the top drawer was a small cassette recorder.
I pressed play.
Static filled the room.
Then my mother's voice.
“Becca, if you're hearing this, the plan has already failed.”
I closed my eyes.
Her voice was older than I remembered.
But it was hers.
“I need you to understand something before you hear anything else. I did not leave because I stopped loving you.”
My throat tightened.
“I left because your father had discovered what I was doing.”
The recording paused.
Then she continued.
“I had been investigating the organization for years. Your father wasn't its leader, but he became involved because they offered him access to money and influence. When I threatened to expose them, they threatened you.”
I sat down slowly.
“The night you were told I died, I was taken.”
My hand tightened around the recorder.
“I escaped three days later. I could have returned. I didn't.”
The sentence hurt more than I expected.
“Because by then, they had placed someone inside the house.”
Linda.
My stepmother.
“She was instructed to monitor you.”
I looked toward the empty hallway.
“She was not supposed to hurt you. She was supposed to make sure you remained useful to them.”
Useful.
The word made my stomach turn.
“You will eventually discover that your military career was manipulated. I am sorry. But there were parts I could not stop.”
The recording clicked.
I leaned closer.
“Your father knows where the original records are.”
The tape ended.
I sat in silence.
Then I heard a floorboard creak upstairs.
I raised my weapon.
“Come out.”
Nothing.
I moved toward the staircase.
Another creak.
Then a woman's voice.
“Put the gun down.”
I stopped.
She stepped into view.
Gray hair.
Thin face.
A dark coat.
But the eyes were exactly the same.
My knees nearly gave way.
“Mom?”
She looked at me.
For a long moment neither of us moved.
Then she whispered my name.
“Rebecca.”
I had imagined this moment thousands of times.
In every version, I ran into her arms.
Instead, I stood frozen.
“You're alive.”
“Yes.”
“You let me believe you were dead.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I know.”
“You watched me grow up from somewhere?”
“I tried.”
“That's not an answer.”
She descended the stairs slowly.
“I couldn't come back.”
“You could have tried.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Several times.”
I laughed bitterly.
“I don't remember.”
“You weren't supposed to.”
She stopped a few feet away.
“Your father was compromised.”
“Did he know?”
“Yes.”
“About you being alive?”
“Yes.”
My anger rose.
“So all these years he knew?”
“He knew I survived.”
“And he lied to me.”
“He believed he was protecting you.”
I shook my head.
“Everyone keeps using that word.”
My mother looked at me carefully.
“Because it is the only reason any of us are still alive.”
Before I could answer, headlights appeared through the curtains.
Three vehicles.
My mother turned sharply.
“They found us.”
I drew my weapon.
“Who?”
She looked at me.
“The people who have Jason.”
The front door exploded inward.
We dropped behind the staircase as gunfire tore through the room.
My mother grabbed my sleeve.
“There is a tunnel beneath the house.”
“You built an escape route?”
“No.”
She pointed toward the office.
“Your father did.”
We ran.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: My Mother Led Me Beneath the House My Father Had Built, Where the Missing Fort Bragg Records Finally Connected Jason to My Career
My Father Asked Me to Disappear for Christmas, and Before Midnight a Highway Disaster Exposed a Secret Buried Since Fort Bragg
Part 5 of 12
