Chapter 6 - The photograph from Fallujah
Dad returned carrying something Marcus’s people missed.
An old photograph.
He had kept it inside his wallet for nearly two decades.
Five American servicemen stood beside a damaged vehicle beneath a brutal Iraqi sun.
Dad was one.
Harrison was another.
Much younger.
Thinner.
But unmistakable.
“What were you doing together?”
Dad took a long time before answering.
“Convoy security.”
He had served in a military police unit before later transferring into a specialized advisory role.
Harrison had been attached to a logistics contractor supporting military operations.
Not a soldier.
A civilian contractor.
April nineteenth involved a convoy carrying medical supplies.
At least officially.
Dad discovered discrepancies.
Crates whose manifests did not match their contents.
Equipment disappearing.
Contractors being paid through shell companies.
Harrison’s name appeared repeatedly.
Dad reported it.
Then the convoy was attacked.
Three men died.
Dad survived.
Harrison survived.
An investigation followed.
But evidence disappeared.
Witnesses changed statements.
The case dissolved.
Dad left the service years later and never spoke about it again.
“Did Harrison cause the attack?”
“I never had evidence of that.”
That distinction mattered to Dad.
Even now.
“But he was involved in something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I never proved exactly how much.”
Then he rolled up his sleeve.
The tattoo wasn’t a unit emblem.
It commemorated the three men who died.
Initials were woven into the faded design.
That was what Harrison recognized.
Not Dad’s rank.
Not some mythical reputation.
The dead.
The evidence of a day Harrison had spent twenty years trying to forget.
Then Ortiz asked:
“Why would seeing Thomas now terrify him?”
Dad looked toward me.
“Because one piece of evidence from that investigation was never recovered.”
“What?”
“A ledger.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where is it?”
Dad said:
“I thought it was destroyed.”
Thought.
Not knew.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
My house.
Taken minutes earlier.
Then a message:
Tell Thomas to stop digging.
Dad stared at it.
Ortiz immediately began tracing what she could.
Then another photograph arrived.
May you like
This one showed my father’s garage.
And beside the door stood a man holding a red gasoline can.
