The Secret Friend

52

Jonathan Hale stared at his daughter's pictures, searing Emma's face into his mind's eye, wanting to preserve every angle to keep her from fading.

But she would fade. The mind, he knew, was the most cunning prison, a ruthless warden. It would take these memories of Emma and, like Susan, blur them over time while torturing him with this singular, inescapable fact: he had taken each of these moments for granted.

His girls, the two most important people in what he had come to realize was a completely insignificant, hollow life, smiled at him. Husband and father. Now he was a widower, the father to a dead child.

Daddy.

Hale, drunk and numb, looked up and saw Emma sitting in the leather armchair. Her hair wasn't wet and mangled with twigs; it was neatly combed, thick and beautiful. Her face was alive, full of colour.

'Hey, baby. How are you doing?'

Mom and I are fine now.

'What are you doing here?'

We're worried about you.

Hale's eyes were hot and wet. 'I miss you so much.'

We miss you too.

'I'm sorry, baby. I'm so, so sorry.'

You didn't do anything wrong, Dad.

Hale buried his face in his hands and cried. 'I don't know what to do.'

You already know what to do.

'I can't.'

God answered your prayers. He sent someone to help you.

Yes, he had prayed to God for the truth, and the messenger was like a creature spawned from the Catechism books from his childhood – a man with strange black eyes holding terrible secrets, a man who had killed two federal agents and God only knew who else; a man who had given him the name and face of his daughter's killer.

Now that he knew the truth, he wished God would take it away. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know.

It's not just about me any more, Daddy. You know about what happened to the others.

Hale checked his watch. He could still make the call. He still had time.

They can't speak for themselves. They need you to speak for them.

Hale stumbled across the room and scooped the cell phone from his desk.

You can't let them suffer in silence.

He dialled the number.

Look at me, Daddy.

He felt numb as Malcolm Fletcher answered the call.

'Yes, Mr Hale?'

Daddy, look at me.

Hale looked at the armchair where Emma sat, legs crossed, hands folded on her lap.

Think about the parents of all those young women. Don't they have a right to know the truth? Don't they deserve justice?

'Have you changed your mind, Mr Hale?'

You've been given an amazing gift, Daddy. God heard and answered your prayers. Are you going to refuse him?

Hale rubbed the whiskers along his face. 'Do it.'

'You are aware of the potential risks.'

'That's why I employ the best lawyers in the state,' Hale said. 'I want the son of a bitch to pay for what he did. I want him to suffer.'