Chapter 6 - The Town Remembers
The next morning, I drove to the old cemetery on the edge of town. I went alone. No security. No Arthur. No cameras. Just me, the necklace around my neck, and a single white rose.
The cemetery was quiet. Peaceful. Rows of headstones stretching back a hundred years, most of them bearing the names of families who’d built the town — and many of them bearing the name Morrison.
I found my mom’s grave near the back, under a big oak tree. The stone was weathered now. The letters were starting to fade. I knelt down, wincing a little at the pressure on my knees, and laid the rose at the base.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. My voice cracked. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here in a while. A lot has happened. I — I found out what happened to you. Who did it. And I promise you — I’m going to make it right. She’s not going to get away with it anymore. Never again.”
I sat there for a long time. Just talking. Telling her about the baby. About the company. About the new building. About how I was finally, finally going to be okay.
When I stood up to leave, I saw her.
An old woman. In her late seventies, maybe. Wearing a faded house dress, leaning on a cane, standing a few feet away, watching me. She had a basket of flowers in her hand. She was standing in front of a small grave marked LUCAS CARTER — AGE 7.
I recognized her immediately. Mrs. Carter. She’d lived down the street from us when I was little. Her grandson Lucas had gotten leukemia when he was five. Died two years later. Everyone had said it was bad luck. A random tragedy.
“Cassidy?” she said, squinting at me. “Is that really you? All grown up?”
I walked over to her. “Hi, Mrs. Carter. It’s me. How are you?”
She reached out and took my hand. Her skin was thin. Papery. But her grip was strong.
“I saw you on the news,” she said, her eyes bright. “That press conference. Oh, honey. We were all cheering. All of us who remember. All of us who lost someone because of that mill. You have no idea how long we’ve waited for someone to stand up to that family.”
She nodded at her grandson’s grave.
“Lucas wasn’t bad luck,” she said quietly. “It was the water. The poison they dumped in the river. We all drank it. We all bathed in it. Our kids played in it. Twelve kids got sick in three years. Nine of them died. The Morrisons said it was a coincidence. Said we were just poor people looking for someone to blame. They paid off the doctors. Paid off the health department. Made it all go away. But we knew. We always knew.”
She leaned in closer.
“Your mom knew too,” she said. “That’s why they killed her. Everyone in this town has suspected it for twenty years. But no one dared say it. Diane would have ruined us. Taken our jobs. Our homes. Destroyed anyone who talked. But now? Now you’re here. And she’s gone. And people are starting to talk. Last night, at the diner? Old Tom — the mechanic who used to work at the mill? He was crying. Said he’d done something terrible twenty years ago. Said he couldn’t live with it anymore. Said he was going to tell the truth.”
My heart skipped a beat.
Old Tom.
The man on the phone.
“Where is he now?” I said. “Do you know?”
“Over at the church,” she said. “Father O’Malley is talking to him. Says he’s scared. Scared Diane’s people will get to him before he can talk. But he’s ready. He’s finally ready.”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Thank you, Mrs. Carter,” I said, squeezing her hand. “You’ve told me more than you know. And I promise you — I’m going to make sure every single one of those families gets justice. Every kid who got sick. Every parent who lost a child. The Morrisons are going to pay for every bit of it.”
I got in my car and drove straight to Saint Jude’s, the old stone church on Main Street.
Tom was sitting in the back pew, alone, his head in his hands. He was older than I’d pictured. Gray hair, a bushy mustache, hands gnarled from a lifetime of turning wrenches. He looked up when I walked in.
He didn’t seem surprised.
“I knew you’d come,” he said. His voice was the same rough gravel from the phone. “Sit, Cassidy. Please.”
I sat down beside him.
“I have the proof,” he said, without preamble. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick envelope, sealed with wax. “Everything. The brake line I cut and kept. The receipts. The letters your mom wrote to the EPA. The bank records showing the deposits into my account. The name of the cop she paid. The name of the truck driver. Everything. I’ve kept it all these years. Hidden in my sister’s attic. I knew one day someone would come. Someone who could make it right.”
He handed me the envelope. It was heavy. Solid.
“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he said, his voice breaking. “I don’t deserve it. I helped kill your mom. I have to live with that every day for the rest of my life. All I’m asking is — when this is all over, when Diane is in jail — you tell those families the truth. About the water. About the kids. Give them the proof they need to sue. To get what’s theirs. Let them know their kids didn’t die for nothing.”
“I will,” I said. I held the envelope tight in my hands. “I promise. And Tom? You testify against her. You tell the whole truth. And I’ll make sure you get immunity. You won’t go to jail. You’ve suffered enough.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t want immunity,” he said. “I deserve whatever happens to me. But I’ll testify. I’ll stand up in court and tell the world exactly what she did. It’s the least I can do for your mom. For all of them.”
We sat there in the quiet church for a long time. The stained-glass windows cast colored light across the pews. Somewhere, a bell tolled.
“One more thing,” Tom said, suddenly. “Diane didn’t act alone. She had help. From a lawyer. A man named Richard Sterling. He’s still in town. Still practicing. He’s the one who handled all the payments. All the cover-ups. He knows everything. And he’s got a file. A safe full of evidence on every bad thing the Morrisons ever did. Blackmail material. Diane kept it on everyone. Just in case. If we can get that file? It’s over. She’ll never get out.”
Richard Sterling.
I knew the name. He’d been the Morrisons’ family lawyer for thirty years. He’d handled Brendan’s and my divorce. He’d been in the room the day we signed the papers, leering at me like I was a piece of meat, telling me I was lucky Brendan was even giving me the fifty thousand dollars he’d offered.
Fifty thousand dollars.
From a man who’d been stealing hundreds of millions.
“Where is this safe?” I said.
“In his office,” Tom said. “Downtown. Above the hardware store. He’s there every night until late. He thinks he’s untouchable. Thinks no one would dare come after him. But he’s wrong. Isn’t he?”
May you like
I stood up. The envelope was still in my hand.
“Yeah, Tom,” I said. “He’s very wrong.”
