The Unsent Appeal novel · Chapter 13 of 24

Chapter 13: What Dad Left

Finley called at six that evening.

I put him on speaker and set the phone on the table between Elliott and me.

"I asked Briana," Finley said. His voice was flat. "I asked her straight out who was driving that night."

"What did she say?" I asked.

"She said you were. She said you've been telling people different for years because you can't live with it."

Elliott's jaw went tight.

"Do you believe her?" I said.

"No. But I'm the only one in my family who doesn't."

"My father heard about the lobby from his partner. He says a man remembering a voice from a stretcher won't stand up to a lawyer."

"He's right," Elliott said. "I know it."

"I need something on paper," Finley said. "Anything with a date on it. Anything that isn't one of you telling me."

"I'll find it," I said.

When he hung up, Elliott looked at me for a while.

"Your father's gray box," he said.

"I haven't opened it."

"I know. You've looked at it every Saturday for a month."

I picked up my phone and opened the voicemail folder.

There was one saved message at the very bottom, three years old.

Dad had called on a Tuesday, and I had been at a client dinner, and I had seen his name and let it go.

He had died that Thursday.

I had never pressed play.

"I can't do it alone," I said.

"You won't." Elliott put his hand flat on the table, palm up, and I took it.

We drove to Quincy.

The workshop smelled of sawdust and cold iron, the way it always had.

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