Chapter 5 - The Night Emily Died
“YOU TOLD ME THAT VAN WAS NEVER FOUND, THOMAS. YOU LOOKED ME IN THE EYES WHILE I WAS BURYING MY DAUGHTER!”
I wanted to make that telephone call immediately.
I wanted Thomas Rourke standing in front of me.
But Detective Ortiz grabbed my arm.
“Michael, don't.”
I stared at her.
“That van killed Emily.”
“We have a transportation record. We don't have the entire truth.”
“It's enough.”
“No. It's enough to start investigating. If you warn Thomas now, he can destroy everything else.”
I hated how calm she sounded.
I hated even more that she was right.
I sat on a bench inside North Station while Lena secured the evidence.
For the first time in eleven years, I allowed myself to remember every detail of the night Emily died.
We had been returning from a Christmas concert.
Emily wore a red sweater with a white snowflake stitched across the front.
She had performed a solo.
Afterward, she climbed into the passenger seat of my car, grinning proudly.
“Did you hear me, Daddy?”
“Every single note.”
“Was I good?”
“You were the best singer in the whole world.”
She laughed.
Then she reached over and took my hand.
Snow had begun falling as we approached Old Ridge Road.
The highway was quiet.
Emily was telling me what she wanted for Christmas when headlights suddenly appeared behind us.
A large black van approached too quickly.
It moved into the opposite lane, trying to pass on a blind curve.
Then another vehicle appeared around the bend.
The van swerved.
Its side struck my car.
I lost control.
My vehicle crashed through the guardrail and slid down a frozen embankment.
I remembered the sound of twisting metal.
The impact.
The terrible silence afterward.
Then Emily's small voice.
“Daddy?”
I tried to reach her.
My seat belt had jammed.
My left arm wouldn't move.
“I'm here, baby.”
“I'm scared.”
“I know, sweetheart. Just keep talking to me.”
She held my shirt.
I kept promising help was coming.
But the van never stopped.
For the next twenty minutes, I remained trapped beside my daughter, listening to her voice become weaker.
By the time emergency crews reached us, Emily had stopped responding.
She died before sunrise.
Thomas Rourke handled the investigation afterward.
He told me the van had been stolen.
He said the driver had vanished.
He claimed there were no usable transportation records and no witnesses.
I had believed him.
For eleven years.
Now I stood inside a deserted railway station holding proof that my own trusted lieutenant had lied.
Lena approached.
“We recovered an archived dispatch file from the flash drive.”
“Play it.”
“Michael—”
“Play it.”
She reluctantly pressed the screen.
A man's voice emerged through the recording.
“Vehicle Twelve reporting collision on Old Ridge. Civilian car off the road. Possible injuries.”
A pause.
Then a second voice answered.
“Continue to the destination.”
The driver sounded uncertain.
“Sir, there might be a child inside.”
My breathing stopped.
The second voice returned.
“Do not stop. Do not contact emergency services. Keep moving.”
I knew that voice.
I had heard it every day for seventeen years.
Thomas Rourke.
Lena ended the recording.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
The van's driver had reported the collision.
He had known someone might be injured.
And Thomas had ordered him to leave.
“Emily might still be alive,” I whispered.
Lena said nothing.
“We lost twenty minutes because nobody stopped.”
“Michael, we don't know whether earlier help would have changed the outcome.”
“I know.”
My voice cracked.
“I know. And that's what makes it worse.”
My phone rang.
Thomas Rourke.
I stared at his name.
Lena shook her head.
“Don't answer.”
I let the call ring.
Then a message appeared.
You found the old records, didn't you?
Another message followed.
There's a reason I told you never to return to Old Ridge Road.
And then a photograph arrived.
It showed Nora sleeping in her hospital bed.
Taken only minutes earlier.
May you like
Someone inside St. Catherine's was watching her.
And Thomas Rourke wanted me to know it.
