Chapter 2: Uninvited Truths
The small kitchen table had only two chairs, one of which wobbled on a uneven leg. Julian pulled it out and sat down without being asked, his expensive wool suit looking entirely out of place beneath the flickering fluorescent light. He rested his forearms on the table, staring at his clasped hands, his dark tattoos stark against his pale skin.
"Why didn't you come forward?" he asked, not looking up. "The police reports, the city assistance fund... my office tried to trace everyone touched by that wreck. Your name never showed up."
I leaned back against the counter, folding my arms across my apron. "My father didn't have life insurance, Mr. Reed. Or a savings account. What he had was debt, and a landlord who wanted back rent two days after the funeral. When the city investigators came by asking questions, I was nineteen, working double shifts at a diner, and terrified that if I made noise, I'd lose the roof over my head. People like you... you live in a different city. I figured the man in the car was long gone, wrapped up in his own recovery."
"I spent six months in a burn unit," Julian said quietly, lifting his gaze to meet mine. "And another year in physical therapy learning how to hold a pen, how to walk without a limp. By the time I was back on my feet and looking for the family of the man who pulled me out, the trail was stone cold. The police files had been archived, the responding officers had transferred. I hit a dead end."
"And yet here I was, following you out of a grocery store parking lot like some stray dog," I said, a bitter edge slipping into my voice despite my resolve to stay calm. "I don't need your charity, Mr. Reed. I didn't follow you to ask for money."
"Then why?" He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping sharply against the floor. He stepped closer, stopping a few feet away, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne mixed with the stale air of the apartment. "You risked your anonymity to trail me through three transit transfers. What did you want from me?"
"I wanted to see if you remembered," I said, the words slipping out before I could cage them. "I wanted to see if the man my father died for was worth the empty seat at this table every holiday. I wanted to see if you ever thought about him, or if you just went back to your high-rise towers and forgot that someone else paid the fare for you to walk free."
May you like
Julian flinched as if I had struck him across the face. The anger drained out of him, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating stillness. He looked down at the floor, then back at the portrait of my father by the door. Without another word, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a heavy silver money clip, and extracted a thick, embossed business card. He laid it gently on the edge of the laminate table, weighting it down with a salt shaker.
"I never forgot," he said softly. "Not for a single day."
