CHAPTER 8 — Eleanor's Greatest Crime
Three days later...
The police searched the Whitmore mansion.
Every hidden safe.
Every locked office.
Every storage room.
Arthur quietly watched from the front porch.
He wasn't smiling.
Because he knew...
The truth would hurt more than revenge ever could.
Detectives eventually forced open an old cedar chest inside Eleanor's private bedroom.
Inside...
They found dozens of sealed envelopes.
Each labeled with a date.
Each addressed to Arthur.
None had ever been mailed.
Richard carefully opened one.
His own handwriting.
Age sixteen.
"Dad..."
"I won my first baseball championship."
"I wish you were here."
Another.
Age eighteen.
"I got accepted into college."
Another.
Age twenty-five.
"I became a father today."
Hundreds of letters.
Arthur had never received a single one.
Richard's hands shook uncontrollably.
"You told me..."
"You told me he never answered."
Eleanor stared at the floor.
"I couldn't let him come back."
Richard felt physically sick.
"But why?"
For the first time in decades...
Eleanor spoke honestly.
"Because..."
"He loved all of you more than he loved me."
"I was afraid..."
"If he returned..."
"I would become invisible."
Silence.
Then Arthur quietly reached into another evidence box.
"I have one more thing."
He pressed play on an old cassette recorder.
A younger Eleanor's voice filled the room.
"If Arthur comes home..."
"He'll give everything to the children."
"We have to convince them he abandoned them."
Richard collapsed into a chair.
Every memory...
Every birthday...
Every Christmas...
Every Father's Day...
Had been built upon one enormous lie.
He buried his face in his hands.
"I hated my own father..."
"For something he never did."
Arthur walked over.
He placed one hand on Richard's shoulder.
"I never stopped loving you."
Richard began crying like a little boy.
For the first time since childhood...
May you like
He called him...
"Dad."
