Chapter 7 - THE LESSON I FORGOT
I didn't have the page.
At least, I thought I didn't.
For two days I searched everything Dad left behind.
Books.
Notes.
Boxes.
His desk.
Nothing.
Then Mom found me crying on the floor.
“I can't remember.”
“Remember what?”
“He expected me to know.”
“Your father expected too much sometimes.”
“He trusted me.”
“Those aren't always different things.”
She sat beside me.
“What was the last lesson he taught you?”
I thought.
Three weeks before his death, Dad handed me a blank sheet of paper.
He asked what it said.
“Nothing.”
He held it near a lamp.
Still nothing.
Then he brushed water across it.
Letters appeared.
I had laughed.
“Hidden ink.”
“No,” he said.
“Hidden attention.”
I remembered his exact words.
The best place to hide a message isn't where nobody looks. It's where everybody looks and decides there's nothing there.
I ran to my bedroom.
Dad's final birthday card to me.
Blank inside except:
Love, Dad.
I brushed the paper lightly with water.
Writing emerged.
Twelve names.
One was Elias Russo.
One was Victor Hale.
One was a federal judge.
One was a billionaire developer.
One was the police commissioner.
And one made Dominic sit down.
VICTORIA RUSSO.
His mother.
Dominic whispered:
May you like
“No.”
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