I read the handwritten notes last. These are different from the margin annotations. Looser. Less careful. Written fast, in a hand that’s lost its patience with neatness. Some are fragments and include names, dates, dollar amounts. Some are longer, half paragraphs that read as though he was talking to himself, trying to work something out on paper.
One page stops me.
It’s a list. Short. Four names, written in a column. Three of them are council members, names I vaguely remember, faces from fundraisers and town halls, adults who shook my hand and told me my father was a great man. Next to each of these names is a single word or phrase in his handwriting.
Compromised.
Turned.
Bought or threatened. Unclear which.
The fourth name I don’t recognize but it’s underlined twice. There’s no annotation next to it, just the underlining, the pen pressed hard enough to dent the paper.
I set the page on the bed and stare at it.
These documents aren’t a vindication, even I know that. And that’s what Sting doesn’t understand about me. He was looking for a quick and dirty answer to my father’s guilt or innocence, and when it didn’t jump out and bite him in the ass, he discounted the whole fucking thing.
He wanted a quick answer, the triumphant proof, a silver bullet, a single piece of evidence that exonerates my father beyond all doubt. And when he didn’t find it, he called the whole thing circumstantial and moved on.
Just like that.
But that’s not what these papers are and that’s not how this works. They’re just notes where the full story is slowly taking shape.
My dad tried, was ignored, and tried harder. His allies abandoned him, one by one, until he was the only voice in the room still asking questions. And then he was gone. That’s not a corrupt man protecting his territory, that’s a man standing alone and refusing to shut up.
My vision blurs.
I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear hits the page in my hand, landing right on the margin next to Dad’s handwriting, a small dark circle spreading into the paper. I think, very clearly:I’m going to ruin the evidence.
I set the page down. Carefully. Align it with the others.
Then I just sit there and let it happen.
It’s not dramatic, no sobbing, no real sound. Just tears running down my face in steady rivers, dropping off my chin onto my hands, onto my shirt, onto the bedspread inches from where Mara is sleeping. Mine is the crying of someone who’s been holding it in so long that when it finally comes, it’s steady and impossible to stop.
I haven’t cried since I entered the Rot. Not once. Not when I lost the Hunt, not when they put my name in the ledger, not during the worst nights. I held it in, all of it, because crying in this place is a luxury no one can afford.
But my tears aren’t weakness, dammit. This is meeting my father again on the pages he left behind, hearing his voice gofrom polite to direct to desperate, and seeing his hand press hard into the paper next to a name he couldn’t figure out.
It’s the exquisite pain of meeting him and losing him again, all in the same moment. Every page in front of me confirms he was the man I knew, his conscience real, his efforts real, his concerns real.
And every page reminds me he’s gone, leaving me doubled over in agony.
Mara’s breathing is steady beside me. In the morning, I’ll tell her what I found. I’ll match these pages to the letters and notes she’s hidden outside, and maybe between the two, we’ll start to put together a more complete story of what the hell went down in Rothwell, and what my dad was trying to do about it.
But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, I sit on my side of the bed in a dead mall and I cry for my dad, quietly, so I don’t wake the only person left in the world who would understand why.
When the waterworks cease, I wipe my face with the back of my hand. I gather the papers, slide them into the plastic bag, and seal it with the tape that barely holds anymore.
I press the bag against my chest.
Then I slide everything under my side of the mattress for safekeeping, pull the blanket up, and lie down next to Mara. She’s warm. She smells unwashed, smoky, not herself, but her warmth is nice and I press my forehead against her shoulder blade and close my eyes.
16
VI
I findAlice at the work hub the next morning. Same station, same position, hands sorting, eyes down. I slide in beside her and match her rhythm.
