David’s father had given it to him when he started working in the family hardware store. David carried it almost everywhere.
Then, shortly before the fire, he lost it.
He told me he had lent it to Charlie while they were fixing a bicycle.
Charlie always said he had given it back.
Wrapped around the knife was a folded piece of paper.
My fingers shook as I opened it.
There was a phone number.
And a message.
Call me. What happened all those years ago isn’t what you were told. You should ask questions about your own family.
The attic tilted beneath me.
Ellie touched my arm.
“Grandma?”
“I’m okay.”
She stared at my face.
“You don’t look okay.”
She was right.
I wasn’t.
Part 4 — The Man Named Tom
I called the number.
A man answered almost immediately.
“Laura?”
My grip tightened around the phone.
The voice was wrong.
Too young.
Not David.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Tom.”
“Where did you get this knife?”
Silence.
Then he said quietly, “I’m not David.”
“I know that.”
Another pause.
“David was my uncle.”
I sat heavily on the bottom stair.
Tom explained that his mother was Nancy—David’s older sister.
Suddenly, the resemblance made sense.
“Ellie thought you were him,” I said.
“I’ve heard that before. My grandmother always said I looked like him.”
“And the mark above your eyebrow?”
“A birthmark. Apparently it’s almost the same shape as his scar.”
I closed my eyes.
“How did you know Ellie was my granddaughter?”
“She mentioned a Grandma Laura one day. Later she said you had gone to Westbrook High.”
“And your family still remembers me?”
“We still have David’s copy of the prom picture.”
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
Somewhere, all these years, his family had kept a photograph of me too.
“Why give an eight-year-old a pocketknife to bring home?”
“I wrapped it up. And I didn’t know how else to reach you without asking a child for personal information. I knew you’d recognize it.”
I looked down at the scratched initials.
“Where did you find it?”
Tom hesitated.
“Charlie had it.”
For a second I thought I had misunderstood him.
“My brother?”
“You know he belongs to the woodworking club?”
“Yes.”
“So do I. We’ve known each other casually for years.”
Tom explained that a few weeks earlier, he had noticed the red knife lying on Charlie’s workbench.
His mother had told him stories about David.
Including the story of the missing knife.
Tom had immediately recognized it.
“When you asked Charlie about it, what did he say?”
“He called it nothing important and put it away.”
“But you didn’t believe him.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother remembers David losing that knife right before the fire.”
My heart began pounding.
“What did Charlie tell you?”
“Not everything.”
“Then tell me what you know.”
Tom’s voice softened.
“I don’t think I should tell his story for him.”
Anger flashed through me.
“Then why contact me at all?”
“Because you deserve to ask the right question.”
I stood.
“What question?”
There was a long silence.
Finally, Tom said:
“Ask Charlie where David was the night before the fire.”
The room seemed to disappear around me.
“What?”
“Ask him, Laura.”
I reached for the railing.
My hand missed.
The next thing I clearly remember is opening my eyes and seeing Ellie kneeling beside me with my phone pressed to her ear.
“She’s awake,” she was saying. “Yes. She opened her eyes.”
“Ellie?”
She looked down at me.
“I called 911.”
“What? Why?”
“You fainted!”
“I did not faint.”
“You fell down and didn’t answer me.”
It was difficult to argue with that.
The paramedics arrived and checked me over.
They believed stress had triggered the episode and told me to seek further medical attention if the dizziness returned or if anything else felt wrong.
After they left, Ellie planted her hands on her hips.
“You are not driving anywhere.”
I would have laughed under different circumstances.
Instead, I drank water, called my daughter, and told her enough of the story to make her come over immediately.
A few hours later, once I felt steady, she drove me to Charlie’s house.
She waited in the car.
I walked to my brother’s front door alone.
Part 5 — The Secret My Brother Kept for Forty-Two Years
Charlie opened the door smiling.
“Laura. What brings you—”
I raised the red pocketknife.
The smile vanished.
His face told me the truth before his mouth did.
“Where did you get that?”
“Tom.”
Charlie closed his eyes.
Something inside me broke.
“You lied to me.”
“Laura, come inside.”
“No.”
He glanced toward the driveway.
“Please.”
“I said no. Tell me right here.”
His shoulders sagged.
“Tell you what?”
“Tom said I should ask where David was the night before the fire.”
Charlie stopped moving.
I had known my brother my entire life.
I knew every expression he used when he was irritated, guilty, nervous, amused, or exhausted.
But I had never seen that look before.
He suddenly seemed much older than he had five minutes earlier.
“Charlie.”
He looked at the ground.
“David came here.”
The words barely registered.
“What?”
“The night before the fire. David came to the house.”
My throat closed.
“Why?”
“To see you.”
I stared at him.
“Where was I?”
His answer was almost a whisper.
“Upstairs.”
The world went silent.
I could hear birds somewhere beyond the yard.
A car passed at the end of the street.
Everything ordinary continued while forty-two years of my life shifted beneath my feet.
“You told him I wasn’t home.”
Charlie nodded.
“Why?”
“Laura—”
“Why?”
He rubbed his face.
“You were eighteen. Mom and Dad were worried.”
“About what?”
“David had applied for a training program out of town.”
I stared at him.
“I never knew that.”
“I know.”
“Was he accepted?”
Charlie looked miserable.
“Yes.”
The answer struck harder than I expected.
“He came to tell me.”
“Yes.”
“And you sent him away.”
“Mom and Dad thought you would leave with him. They were afraid you’d abandon college and follow him. They told me that if he came by before they had a chance to talk to you, I should send him home.”
“And you obeyed them?”
“I was twenty-one.”
I laughed once, without humor.
“How impressive.”
He flinched.
“I thought they were overreacting. I didn’t think—”
“No. You didn’t.”
He swallowed.
“I told myself I could give you whatever he left the next morning.”
I froze.
“Whatever he left?”
Charlie’s face changed again.
“What did David leave?”
He didn’t answer.
“Charlie.”
His eyes filled.
“What did he leave?”
“An envelope.”
For several seconds, I forgot how to breathe.
“Where is it?”
“Laura—”
“Did you open it?”
“No.”
“Where is it?”
He turned away.
“The fire happened before I had a chance to give it to you.”
“And after David died?”
Charlie said nothing.
I stepped closer.
“What happened after he died?”
