He dropped something onto my lap.
I opened my tear-filled eyes and looked down. It was one of my father’s heavy, black leather dress boots.
I stared at it in confusion. My father had worn his boots to the ceremony. But when he came home and went to sleep in the recliner, I hadn't taken them off him.
Why had the police taken one boot and left the other?
Then I remembered. When we were leaving the house this morning, my father had spent a long time sitting by the door, fumbling with the heel of his right boot. I had assumed it was just his arthritis acting up.
I grabbed the heavy leather boot from my lap. I turned it over and looked at the thick rubber heel.
There was a faint, almost invisible seam cut into the side of the thick rubber.
I grabbed the paring knife from the kitchen floor. I jammed the blade into the seam and pried hard.
The rubber heel popped open. It was hollow inside.
Folded tightly into a tiny, perfect square, was a piece of aged, yellowing stationary.
I pulled it out with trembling fingers and unfolded it.
At the top, printed in bold navy blue ink, was the official letterhead of General Arthur Vance.
And at the bottom, beneath two pages of perfectly preserved, horrific confessions about the bunker at 4:12, was Arthur Vance’s unmistakable, sprawling signature.
David had searched the entire house. He had taken the jacket. He had taken the tape.
But he hadn't taken the right boot.
The yellowed paper felt terrifyingly heavy in my hands. I read the words written by General Arthur Vance three times, my heart pounding so hard it hurt my ribs.
“I locked the heavy iron door,” the messy handwriting read. “I heard Elias Thorne screaming for mercy. I heard young Richard begging me to open it. But I knew if the enemy breached the bunker, I would be captured. I ordered the napalm strike directly onto my own men to cover my retreat. I have lived every day of my life as a coward, draped in medals stained with the blood of better men.”
It was the complete, undeniable truth. It couldn't be argued. It couldn't be dismissed as a fake audio recording. It was signed, dated, and written on official military stationery.
I looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was 11:15 AM.
The main dedication ceremony for the bronze statue of Arthur Vance was scheduled to begin exactly at noon. The entire town would be there. More importantly, the state governor and a high-ranking Pentagon official, General Marcus Sterling, had flown in specifically to give the keynote address.
David Vance couldn't control a four-star Pentagon general.
I folded the letter carefully, slipped it into a plastic ziplock bag, and shoved it deep into the front pocket of my jeans.
I didn't bother trying to fix my front door. I sprinted to my car, started the engine, and sped toward the memorial park, completely ignoring the speed limits.
When I arrived at the cemetery, the atmosphere was entirely different from the morning. The rain had stopped, and the gray clouds were breaking apart. Thousands of people were seated in folding chairs around a massive stage draped in red, white, and blue bunting.
A giant object covered by a black velvet tarp stood in the center of the stage. The statue of Arthur Vance.
I parked my car on a grassy curb a block away and approached the park on foot. Security was incredibly tight. State troopers and local police formed a perimeter around the stage area.
I pulled my hood up, keeping my head down as I blended into a large crowd of local high school students walking toward the viewing area.
As I got closer to the front, I saw my father.
He was sitting in the front row of the VIP section, surrounded by four Oak Creek police officers. He was still wearing his handcuffs. David had brought him back to the ceremony as a sick, twisted trophy. David wanted my father to watch the statue be unveiled before sending him to a holding cell.
David was standing at the podium, speaking into the microphone. His voice echoed across the massive crowd.
"Today, we honor a man of flawless character," David announced, smiling warmly for the news cameras positioned on high scaffolds. "My father, General Arthur Vance, taught us that true sacrifice means putting the lives of your brothers above your own."
I felt violently sick to my stomach.
I scanned the stage. Sitting to the right of the podium was General Marcus Sterling. He was an imposing, serious-looking man with rows of medals on his chest, watching David with polite respect.
Sterling’s aide, a young military captain carrying a leather clipboard, was standing at the bottom of the stage stairs, just a few feet away from the VIP barricade.
I knew I couldn't just run up to the microphone. The local police would tackle me before I made it three steps, and David would ensure the letter was destroyed in the chaos.
I had to be smart. I had to bypass David entirely.
I pushed my way to the front of the crowd, ignoring the annoyed mutters of the people I shoved past. I pressed my stomach against the cold metal of the barricade.
"Captain!" I hissed, trying to keep my voice under the booming sound of the loudspeakers.
The young aide glanced over at me, frowning slightly.
"Captain, please," I pleaded, holding my hands out. "I have a security threat regarding General Sterling. It’s written down."
The aide’s expression instantly sharpened. In today's climate, no military official ignores the word threat.
He walked quickly over to the barricade. "What are you talking about, ma'am?"
I pulled the ziplock bag out of my pocket and shoved the folded stationary into his hand.
"Give this to General Sterling immediately," I whispered fiercely. "Tell him it concerns the man this statue is built for. Tell him if he doesn't read it right now, he is going to dedicate a monument to a war criminal on national television."
The captain looked at my desperate face, then down at the yellowed paper. He recognized the official letterhead showing through the fold.
Without saying a word, he turned and walked swiftly up the stairs to the stage.
I held my breath, my fingernails digging into the metal barricade.
David was still talking. "...and so, as we pull back this veil, we immortalize a hero who never hesitated when the fire fell."