Then he smiled again.
"You have courage. I admire that."
Owen did not return the smile.
Victor moved toward the garage entrance.
"Garrett, can we talk?"
Garrett followed him into the house.
The moment they were alone, Victor's expression changed.
"What exactly did that letter say?"
Garrett closed the door.
"I haven't read all of it."
"Then why are you letting the boy keep it?"
"Because it belongs to his mother."
Victor stared at him.
"His mother is dead."
"That doesn't change anything."
Victor took a slow breath.
"Garrett, I understand that Daniel's name brings back difficult memories. But we cannot allow some eighteen-year-old mechanic to drag the company through fifteen-year-old accusations."
"Nobody has accused anyone of anything."
"Not yet."
Garrett frowned.
"What are you afraid of?"
Victor's expression softened.
"I'm afraid you're going to let grief make you careless again."
The words struck deeper than Garrett wanted to admit.
For years, Victor had been the person who handled the things Garrett could no longer bear to think about. He had managed the business during Garrett's recovery. He had organized the legal proceedings after the crash. He had explained the documents, handled the meetings, and reassured Garrett that the investigation had uncovered the truth.
Victor had been there when everyone else had gone home.
Garrett had trusted him.
Perhaps too much.
"Daniel's letter mentions you," Garrett said.
Victor did not react.
"What does it say?"
"I don't know yet."
"Then find out."
Garrett studied his brother.
"Why are you so interested?"
Victor's face became almost sorrowful.
"Because I watched you lose your wife and son. I watched you spend years trying to understand how a man you trusted could have betrayed you. I don't want you to suffer through that again."
Garrett looked away.
Victor placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Let me handle this."
Garrett did not answer.
Outside, Owen was examining the Blackbird's frame.
He had found another wire beneath the fuel tank, one that seemed to lead toward a hidden compartment near the front of the motorcycle. The line was wrapped in the same protective material Daniel had used in the safety circuit.
Owen traced it with his fingers.
He could not understand why the motorcycle contained so many concealed components.
Unless the motorcycle had been built to carry something.
He removed the fuel tank bolts and carefully lifted the tank from the frame.
Beneath it was a small metal housing, almost invisible beneath the black paint.
Owen stared at it.
He had seen the shape before.
It resembled a sealed electrical compartment, but the cable entering it was too thick for a simple sensor.
He reached for his multimeter.
Then stopped.
He remembered the warning in Daniel's notebook.
Do not bypass the circuit.
Whatever his father had built, it had been designed to protect something.
Owen reattached the fuel tank and waited for Garrett to return.
When the older man emerged from the house, his expression had become unreadable again.
"Did you find anything?"
"Maybe."
"What does that mean?"
"I think the motorcycle contains another compartment."
Garrett looked toward the tank.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Can you open it?"
"Not without understanding the wiring."
Garrett sighed.
"You're telling me my motorcycle has a secret compartment?"
"I'm telling you it has a concealed housing connected to the safety circuit."
Garrett stared at the bike.
For a moment, he seemed to be remembering something.
Then he shook his head.
"Do what you need to do."
Owen looked at him.
"Do you know why my father would have hidden something inside it?"
Garrett's face hardened.
"No."
"Do you think he was trying to protect someone?"
Garrett did not answer.
Owen turned back to the motorcycle.
He was beginning to understand that the Blackbird was not simply a machine Daniel had built.
It was a message.
And the people who had spent fifteen years trying to bury the truth were becoming increasingly afraid of what it might say.
That evening, after Owen and Ray had left the estate, Victor returned to his car.
He sat behind the steering wheel and stared through the windshield.
For several minutes, he did nothing.
Then he took out his phone.
A man answered after the second ring.
"Yes?"
Victor lowered his voice.
"I need information about someone."
"Who?"
"Owen Fletcher. Eighteen years old. Works at Ray Mercer's garage in Millhaven."
There was a pause.
"Is he connected to Daniel?"
"He's Daniel's son."
The line went quiet.
Victor watched a pair of headlights pass along the distant road.
"Find out everything you can about him," he said. "His birth records, his adoption, his medical history. Everything."
"What are you looking for?"
Victor's fingers tightened around the phone.
"Something that should have stayed buried."
He ended the call.
Then he sat in the darkness for another minute, staring at the Blackbird through the garage windows.
For fifteen years, the motorcycle had remained silent.
Now it was running again.
And with it, the past had begun to move.
THE MAN WITH THE MISSING FILES
Samuel Price lived in a modest house outside Kansas City.
The property stood on a quiet street lined with maple trees and small gardens. The paint on the porch railing had begun to peel, and a rusted bicycle leaned against the garage wall. There were no expensive cars in the driveway and no signs that the retired attorney had ever been connected to a successful manufacturing company.
Owen and Ray arrived shortly after ten in the morning.
Samuel answered the door wearing a brown cardigan and reading glasses.
He was seventy-four, with thinning white hair and a face marked by years of worry. When Ray introduced himself, Samuel nodded politely.
Then Owen gave his name.
Samuel's expression changed.
"Fletcher?"
"Yes."
"Daniel Fletcher's son?"
Owen nodded.
Samuel stepped back from the doorway.
"Come inside."
The house smelled of coffee, paper, and the faint sweetness of flowers drying in a vase. Books filled the shelves in the living room. Old legal folders were stacked on a desk near the window.
Samuel led them to the dining room and asked Owen to show him the letter.
He read it once.
Then he read it again.
When he finished, he folded the paper carefully and placed it on the table.
"I wondered if this would ever come back."
Owen leaned forward.
"What do you mean?"
Samuel removed his glasses.
"Your father came to see me fifteen years ago. He believed someone had altered the company's safety records, and he was afraid that the investigation into the crash was being manipulated."
"Did you believe him?"
"Yes."
"Then why didn't you help him?"
Samuel lowered his eyes.
"Because I was too late."
He explained that Daniel had arrived at his office carrying copies of purchase orders, engineering reports, and a signed statement from a factory employee. The documents indicated that the brake assembly involved in the crash had been replaced with a cheaper component after Daniel refused to approve it.
Daniel believed the substitution had been deliberate.
He also believed someone had altered the records to make it appear that he had authorized the change.
Samuel had promised to review the evidence and take it to an independent investigator.
Before he could do so, his office was broken into.
The files disappeared.
The employee who had signed the statement withdrew it.
And Daniel Fletcher vanished.
"Did you report the break-in?" Owen asked.
"Of course."
"Did the police investigate?"
"They said there was no evidence of forced entry."
Ray frowned.
"Was there?"
Samuel nodded slowly.
"The lock had been damaged. Drawers had been emptied. My desk had been searched."
"Then why didn't they believe you?"
Samuel looked at the floor.
"Because the man leading the investigation was Sheriff Howard Pike. He told me the missing files were probably unrelated to the crash."
Owen felt a cold knot forming in his stomach.
"What happened to the original partnership agreement?"
Samuel stood and walked toward a cabinet.
"I kept it somewhere else."
He returned carrying a thick folder.