Chapter 52 Chapter 52
FIFTY-TWO~
Detective Morrison traced the text to another burner phone. Just like all the others before.
"Someone out there knows more about James's crimes than we do," Agent Torres said. "Someone who was involved or knows who was involved."
"And they're threatening us with that knowledge," I said. "Why?"
"Because you're investigating," Agent Torres suggested. "You're uncovering secrets people want to stay buried."
My father's trial began the following week. The courtroom was packed with reporters and curious onlookers.
"How do you plead?" the judge asked.
"Guilty, your honor," my father said.
The prosecutor presented evidence. The falsified autopsy reports. The payment from James Harris. My father's admission of guilt.
"This man helped a murderer evade justice for forty years," the prosecutor argued. "Thomas Reed's family deserved the truth. They deserved justice. And Dr. Chen took that from them."
My father's lawyer tried to mitigate. "Dr. Chen was young, in debt, and was lied to by James Harris. He believed Thomas's death was truly an accident. He made a mistake, yes, but not a malicious one."
The judge wasn't sympathetic. "You had a duty as a medical professional to be honest. You violated that duty for money."
My father was sentenced to five years in prison.
My mother collapsed in the courtroom. I caught her before she hit the ground.
"Five years," she kept repeating. "He's seventy-five years old. He might die in there."
"He made his choice," I said, though it hurt to say it.
After the sentencing, Peter Dalton approached me.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I know this is hard for you. But my father deserves justice too."
"I know," I said. "I'm not angry at you. I'm just... processing."
"For what it's worth," Peter said, "I don't think you're responsible for your father's actions. Just like I'm not responsible for James's."
"Thank you," I said.
But I felt responsible anyway.
Sarah wasn't speaking to me. She'd found out about Diana's involvement in Thomas's murder and shut down completely.
"She needs time," David told me when I called. "Learning that both her biological parents were involved in crimes—it's overwhelming."
"I understand," I said. "Just tell her I love her."
"I will," David promised.
The Harris Center was struggling. Donations had dropped by seventy percent. Several staff members quit. Clients cancelled appointments.
"We're not going to survive this," Declan said, looking at the financial reports.
"We have to," I said. "The people we help need us."
"But if we can't afford to keep the doors open," Declan began.
"Then we find new funding," I said firmly. "We don't give up."
But finding new funding was impossible. Every potential donor wanted nothing to do with the Harris name.
"You're toxic right now," one foundation director told me bluntly. "Between your father's conviction and the revelations about Diana Lawson, nobody wants to be associated with your family."
"We're helping people," I protested.
"I understand that," the director said. "But optics matter. And right now, your optics are terrible."
I refused to accept defeat. I reached out to everyone I could think of. Old FBI contacts. Families we'd helped in the past. Anyone who might believe in our mission.
Most said no.
But a few said yes.
"You helped my family when nobody else would," one woman said. "I don't care what your father did. I know who you are."
Slowly, painfully, we started rebuilding.
Meanwhile, the investigation into Thomas Reed's death continued. Detective Morrison discovered that Diana Lawson had been paid by James too—twenty thousand dollars transferred a week after Thomas died.
"Blood money," Sarah said when I told her. She'd finally agreed to meet with me. "My biological mother took blood money."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Why are you sorry?" Sarah asked. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I married into the family that destroyed yours," I said.
"You married Declan," Sarah corrected. "Declan isn't James. You aren't responsible for what his father did or what my biological mother did."
"But it still connects us to it," I said.
"Everything connects to James Harris somehow," Sarah said bitterly. "That's the curse of knowing him."
Detective Morrison called me in for another interview.
"We've identified the other people mentioned in Thomas Reed's recordings," he said.
"Who?" I asked.
"Business associates of James's. Most are dead now, but a few are still alive. We're questioning them."
"And what are they saying?" I asked.
"They're denying everything," Detective Morrison said. "Claiming they don't remember or that the recordings are fake."
"Are they fake?" I asked.
"No," Detective Morrison said. "We've had experts analyze them. They're real."
"So these people are lying," I said.
"Yes," Detective Morrison agreed. "And we need to figure out why."
Over the next few weeks, Detective Morrison's investigation expanded. He discovered that James hadn't just worked with my father and Diana Lawson. He'd built an entire network of people who helped him with various illegal activities.
"It was like a criminal organization," Detective Morrison explained. "James at the center, paying people to do his dirty work."
"How many people?" I asked.
"At least a dozen that we know of," Detective Morrison said. "Lawyers who buried evidence. Accountants who hid money. Police officers who looked the other way. James was systematic about it."
"And they all got away with it," I said.
"Until now," Detective Morrison corrected. "We're reopening investigations into all of them."
But reopening old investigations meant new publicity for our family. More news stories. More harassment.
"Leave the Harris family alone!" someone spray-painted on our garage.
"Your family are murderers!" someone else shouted at Maya when she left class.
The twins wanted to change their last names.
"We're tired of being associated with James Harris," Maya said. "We're tired of people assuming we're like him."
"You're not like him," I said.
"We know that," Nathan said. "But nobody else does. They just see the name Harris and assume the worst."
"What name would you take?" Declan asked quietly.
"Chen," Maya said. "Grandma Chen's maiden name. It's still family, but it's not Harris."
Declan looked hurt but nodded. "If that's what you want, we'll support you."
The twins legally changed their names the following month. Maya Chen and Nathan Chen.
"How do you feel?" I asked Declan afterward.
"Like I'm losing pieces of my family to my father's crimes," Declan said. "First the Harris name's reputation, now the name itself."
"They're still your children," I reminded him.
"I know," Declan said. "But it still hurts."
Three months after my father went to prison, I got a call from the warden.
"Mrs. Harris, I'm calling about your father," he said.
My heart stopped. "Is he okay?"
"He collapsed this morning," the warden said. "He's in the prison hospital. You should come."
I drove to the prison immediately. My mother was already there, looking pale and scared.
"He had a heart attack," she said. "A major one. The doctors don't know if he'll survive."
We waited for hours. Finally, a doctor came out.
"Dr. Chen is stable," he said. "But his heart is badly damaged. He needs surgery, but we can't perform it here. He'll need to be transferred to a regular hospital."
"Can we arrange that?" I asked.
"With the court's permission," the doctor said.
We petitioned for my father to be transferred. The prosecutor objected, saying he was a flight risk.
"He's seventy-five with a damaged heart," our lawyer argued. "Where is he going to flee to?"
The judge allowed the transfer.
My father was moved to a hospital under guard. He looked so frail in the hospital bed, hooked up to machines.
"I'm sorry," he whispered when I visited. "For everything. For the lies, for the cover-up, for bringing this shame on our family."
"I know, Dad," I said. "I know."
"I was weak," he continued. "James offered me money and I took it. I convinced myself I was helping my family, but I was really just being selfish."
"You made a mistake," I said.
"A mistake that led to forty years of lies," my father said. "A mistake that helped a murderer go free."
"Yes," I agreed. "But you're facing the consequences now."
"Not enough consequences," my father said. "I should have confessed years ago. I should have told the truth when it could have helped catch James."
"Why didn't you?" I asked.
"Because I was a coward," my father admitted. "I was afraid of losing everything—my license, my career, my freedom. So I stayed silent."
"And now you've lost it all anyway," I said.
"Yes," my father agreed. "That's the irony, isn't it? I tried to protect myself and ended up destroying everything I cared about."
My father survived the surgery but would need months of recovery. The judge agreed to let him serve the rest of his sentence under house arrest because of his medical condition.
"Thank God," my mother said when she heard. "I couldn't handle five years of him being in prison."
But house arrest came with strict conditions. No leaving the house except for medical appointments. Electronic monitoring. Random check-ins.
"I'm in a different kind of prison," my father said. "But at least I'm home."
Meanwhile, Detective Morrison's investigation kept uncovering new information. He found evidence that James had paid off several other people over the years. A building inspector who ignored safety violations. A journalist who buried a story about Norex's practices. An accountant who cooked the books.
"James's corruption was extensive," Detective Morrison said. "He built his empire on lies and bribes."
"Is everyone being prosecuted?" I asked.
"Everyone we can prove cases against," Detective Morrison said. "Some of the statute of limitations have expired. Some of the evidence is too old. But we're doing our best."
Then, six months after my father's conviction, Detective Morrison made a discovery that changed everything.
"We found another recording," he said. "One Thomas made the night before he died."
"What does it say?" I asked.
Detective Morrison played it for me.
Thomas's voice came through the speakers, shaky and afraid.
"If you're hearing this, I'm dead," Thomas said. "James is planning to kill me. He told me tonight. He said I know too much, that I'm a liability. He said he's already arranged for the autopsy to be covered up, for the investigation to be buried. He has people in place to make it look like an accident."
My blood went cold.
"He planned it," I said. "James planned to murder Thomas. It wasn't a heat-of-the-moment accident. It was premeditated."
"Yes," Detective Morrison agreed. "Which changes everything."
"My father helped cover up a premeditated murder," I said, feeling sick.
"Yes," Detective Morrison said. "And we need to know if your father knew it was premeditated or if James lied to him too."
I didn't know the answer. But I was afraid to find out.
That night, I confronted my father.
"Did you know James planned to kill Thomas?" I asked. "Or did you really believe it was an accident?"
My father looked me in the eyes. "I believed it was an accident."
"Are you sure?" I pressed.
"Anita, I'm many things. I'm a liar and a criminal and a coward. But I'm not a murderer. If I had known James planned to kill Thomas, I never would have helped him. Never."
I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him.
But after everything we'd been through, after all the lies our family had endured, I didn't know if I could trust anyone anymore.
Later that week, I got another text from the unknown number.
Your father is lying. He knew. They all knew. And they all helped James get away with murder.
Want proof? Meet me at Memorial Park. Midnight tomorrow. Come alone.
Or spend the rest of your life wondering if your father is a murderer.
I stared at the text, my heart pounding.
This was obviously a trap. Going alone to meet an unknown person was dangerous and stupid.
But I had to know.
I had to know if my father was telling the truth.
Even if the answer destroyed everything I believed about him.