Chapter 5 - DANIEL’S MOTHER
Daniel Reyes’s mother lived forty miles away.
Lucia Reyes.
Sixty-four.
Retired hotel housekeeper.
I did not call her immediately.
I had no right to reopen a wound merely because I wanted answers.
Our general counsel contacted her attorney first.
She had no attorney.
So I wrote a letter.
Not an email.
Not a legal notice.
A letter.
I told her the university was reviewing records concerning her son.
I said I would meet wherever she preferred.
She called two days later.
“Are you the new president?”
“Yes.”
“The young one?”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“The dress lady?”
I closed my eyes.
Apparently the internet had reached everyone.
“Yes.”
She laughed.
That helped.
We met in her kitchen.
Small house.
Plastic covering on the dining table.
Family photographs everywhere.
Daniel’s graduation photo sat beside the stove.
He looked nineteen forever.
Lucia made coffee.
Then said:
“You want to know if they paid me.”
I became still.
“Did they?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred thousand.”
“What did you sign?”
“A settlement.”
“For the accident?”
“That’s what they called it.”
“Was the university involved?”
“Yes.”
Lucia went to a bedroom.
Returned with a binder.
She had kept everything.
Good.
Parents sometimes preserve what institutions hope time destroys.
The agreement did not explicitly say Daniel’s death was connected to construction concerns.
Instead, the university offered money in exchange for resolving “all potential disputes relating to Daniel Reyes’s employment, student status, and communications with university personnel.”
Broad.
Deliberately broad.
Lucia said:
“I needed the money.”
No shame.
“I had his younger sisters.”
“You don’t have to justify that.”
She looked at me sharply.
“People always say that when they’re about to judge you.”
“I’m not.”
She studied my face.
Then nodded.
“What did they tell you happened?”
“He crashed.”
“Was he drinking?”
“No.”
“Police report?”
“Single vehicle. Wet road. Lost control.”
No evidence of foul play.
I felt relief and sadness simultaneously.
At least one horror did not exist.
“Then why settle?”
Lucia’s face hardened.
“Because Daniel mailed me documents.”
My heart jumped.
“When?”
“The morning he died.”
She disappeared again.
This time she returned with an envelope.
Inside were photocopies of the foundation tests.
Daniel’s handwriting across the top:
MOM — KEEP THESE. IF THEY FIRE ME I’LL NEED THEM.
I swallowed.
“He thought they would fire him.”
“Yes.”
“Not hurt him.”
“No.”
Lucia looked at me.
“He wasn’t afraid for his life.”
Important.
“After he died, Gregory Mercer came here.”
“What did he say?”
“That Daniel had been confused.”
“About the tests?”
“Yes.”
“Did Richard come?”
“Once.”
Her expression softened slightly.
“He cried.”
“Did he apologize?”
“No.”
“Did he admit the problem?”
“No.”
“So what did he do?”
“Offered money.”
Lucia’s jaw tightened.
“I hated him for it.”
“But you took it.”
“Yes.”
“For my girls.”
She looked directly at me.
“And I would take it again.”
I nodded.
“I understand.”
That surprised her.
Then she said:
“There was one person who wanted Daniel remembered.”
“Who?”
“The Mercer girl.”
Alyssa.
My breathing changed.
“She was eight.”
“Yes.”
Lucia smiled sadly.
“She came here once.”
“What?”
“With her mother.”
This had not been in Richard’s version.
“When?”
“Two months after Daniel died.”
“What happened?”
“The little girl brought flowers.”
Lucia looked toward Daniel’s photograph.
“She said she remembered him.”
My throat tightened.
“What did her mother do?”
“Cried.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said Alyssa kept asking about the boy from the university.”
Lucia paused.
“She wanted me to tell Alyssa he was real.”
“What happened?”
“Her mother changed her mind.”
“Why?”
“Gregory called while they were here.”
Of course.
“They left.”
Lucia opened a drawer.
Removed a piece of paper.
A child’s handwriting.
I’m sorry Daniel died. He was nice to me. — Alyssa
I stared.
“Why do you still have this?”
“Because everybody else pretended he never stood in that room.”
Lucia’s eyes filled.
“A child remembered.”
The next day, I showed Alyssa the note.
She cried before reading the whole thing.
“I wrote this?”
“Yes.”
“I went to her house?”
“Yes.”
“My mom told me I dreamed that too.”
She stood.
For several seconds, she paced.
Then stopped.
“Why would my mother do that?”
I did not answer for Catherine Mercer.
Alyssa called her.
Put the phone on speaker.
“Mom.”
“Alyssa?”
“Did you take me to Daniel’s house after he died?”
Silence.
That was enough.
Alyssa started crying.
“Why?”
Catherine’s voice broke.
“Because you wouldn’t stop asking.”
“You told me he wasn’t real.”
“I was trying to help you forget.”
“Why?”
“Because your uncle said—”
She stopped.
Alyssa laughed bitterly.
“There it is.”
“Alyssa.”
“Uncle Gregory.”
“Alyssa, please.”
“What did he threaten?”
Silence.
Then Catherine whispered:
“The company.”
Richard’s company.
“What?”
“He said if Daniel’s files became public, Mercer Construction could collapse.”
“And Dad?”
“He had hundreds of employees.”
“So you lied to me.”
“We were protecting families.”
“No.”
Alyssa wiped her face.
“You were protecting ours.”
Her mother began crying.
Then Alyssa asked the hardest question.
“Did Dad know you told me Daniel wasn’t real?”
Long pause.
“Yes.”
Alyssa ended the call.
She sat.
Then looked at me.
“I don’t know who my parents are.”
I shook my head.
“You know more about them today than you did yesterday.”
“That’s worse.”
“Sometimes.”
She laughed through tears.
“You’re terrible at comforting people.”
“I’ve been told.”
Then I gave her Lucia’s address.
Not to visit.
Not yet.
“To write?”
“If you want.”
“What should I say?”
“That part needs to be yours.”
Three days later, Alyssa mailed a letter.
No lawyers.
No Mercer letterhead.
No check.
Just an apology.
Lucia did not answer immediately.
Good.
Some people spend years waiting for truth.
May you like
They should not be expected to process someone else’s remorse on command.
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