He shook his head, almost like he was frustrated that he didn’t see the signs of it being a setup. “I stepped toward the source, trying to keep my presence unknown. The voice grew louder, more impassioned, and my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach as I listened to my own words. I physically felt sick and had to fight back the nausea. This guy took what I said verbatim and was repeating it to a huge room full of frightened people.” His lower lip trembled and I could sense he was back in that room on that day.
He avoided my eyes, staring past me once more as the memory washed over him. “The smell of gasoline was overpowering,” he said, his voice soft. “I knew it wasn’t going to end well, but what could I do? It wouldn’t do much good for me to go in shooting. It was twelve against one. The odds were not in my favor. So I did what I thought to be the best tactical decision. I hid my presence in the hopes I could save at least one person, even if it cost me my life.
“As I watched those traitors terrorize their hostages, I mentally began to sort through all the intel I had amassed, wondering what I could have missed. That’s when it hit me this was part of the plan all along. This guy wanted me to find everything. He wanted me to go to my superiors to tell them what I found and ask for leave to come here. Then, when word of my trademark fire spread, they would put two and two together and name me as the culprit to this attack, along with all the arms deals I had been investigating. Hell, one of the first things you look for when trying to find the person responsible for a crime is to see who tries to ingrain themselves in the investigation. I had made myself into the perfect suspect.”
“So you hid? You abandoned your family? You watched as over sixty people were murdered and did nothing?”
“I didn’t do nothing, Serafina!” He ripped off the hat he wore that shielded most of his face. “Do you think this is the result of nothing?!” he bellowed passionately, gesturing to the permanent scars covering the left side of his body. “I tried to save them, but I couldn’t! By the time whoever was responsible made his escape, it was too late! The flames were out of control, bodies were on fire! Their screams and shrieks plague my dreams every night! Have you ever smelled burning flesh?!” he exclaimed, tears welling in his eyes.
I stared in shock, shaking my head.
“It’s scorched in my memory, Fi! Every day, I’m reminded that I failed to protect people from a monster. A real life dragon!” He reached for his glass with shaky hands, the trauma of that day all those years ago still wearing on him.
“I did everything I could,” he continued after sipping his wine. “In the end, the only person I could save was a boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. Someone must have shielded him from getting doused with the gasoline. His burns were minor but the smoke got into his lungs. He was barely breathing when I pulled him from the building. When I was about to go back and see if I could rescue anyone else, a convoy of Liberian soldiers pulled up. I knew it was probably cowardly of me to run, to hide from them, but I couldn’t risk being detained. At that point, my sole mission was to try to get home to you and your mother. I feared I would be painted as a monster and I couldn’t let you think that of me.”
“Where did you go?” I asked, still trying to wrap my head around his story. It seemed so unreal, so far-fetched, but it complimented Charlie’s version of what happened perfectly. All the puzzle pieces were falling into place.
“I found a church. I didn’t know what else to do. I had burns on over fifty percent of my body and was convinced I wasn’t going to make it.” He reached across the table, squeezing my hand. I took a quick breath at the contact. It had been years since I felt my father’s flesh on mine. His hand was scarred, rough, and warm. I choked out a loud sob at the gesture. It was so simple, yet it brought back memories of my life before it all fell apart.
“I wasn’t thinking clearly, but I knew I would do anything to try and get a message to your mother that I loved you both. I guess I hoped God would listen and give you that message.” Sincerity covered his face as his eyes locked with mine, the turmoil he had been living with over the years evident.
“But he answered my prayers in other ways. The nuns at the church treated my burns as best they could without modern medicine. I kept asking about the boy I pulled from the fire, but I think they thought I was delirious. They drugged me with medication to help with the pain. I half expected to wake up in a detention center, but that never happened. Finally, after several months, they said I was well enough to leave. I had no idea how to repay the debt I owed. These women took me in and cared for me without asking for anything in return. They even lied to the authorities and said they never saw me. I don’t know how they knew I wasn’t responsible for the tragic fire, but they did.”
“How did you get back home?” I asked, engrossed by his story.
“It wasn’t easy. I did some things I wasn’t proud of. I stole to barter for transport, then spent weeks aboard a cargo ship, trying to get back to you. Every day was torture, never knowing if I’d make it to the end of the day. Finally, we pulled into the Port of Miami and the captain smuggled me ashore. Days later, in the middle of the night, I finally arrived home.
“I sought Father Slattery out and he told me what happened after the attack. How an investigation had been conducted, naming me as the mastermind behind everything, but they didn’t pursue any course of action because it was presumed I had died in the fire. Before my trip over there, I had a bad feeling, so I had gone to him and made him promise if anything suspicious happened, he’d do everything to keep you safe until the threat passed. He assured me he had done what I asked, made arrangements for new identities for you both, and that you were well-protected and in hiding. And that was when I had to make the hardest decision of my life.”
“What was that?”
“I told him to have your mother tell you I was dead.”
“Why?”
“You were only a little girl. I had agents, some specialized in intelligence training, who couldn’t always keep a secret. To protect you, I needed you to believe I was dead. I needed you to forget the life you once had. It was the most difficult decision I ever had to make, but my saving grace was the possibility that, one day, I would find out who was responsible for everything and finally come out of hiding.”
“Charlie,” I said softly.
He looked at me, a confused expression on his face.
“The boy you pulled from the fire was Charlie.”
“Charlie?” he asked. “Your Charlie?”
I nodded slowly.
“How do you know?”
I knew I couldn’t avoid this forever, although reliving those two weeks in March was the last thing I wanted to do. But my father had shared what was arguably one of the most difficult times in his life with me. I needed to do the same.
“Full disclosure,” I murmured.
“Yes, Serafina. Full disclosure.”
“Well, I suppose I should start at the beginning.”
A smile on his face, he said, “That’s usually a pretty good place.”
I grinned, a feeling of hope washing over me as I shared a moment with my father. This was what a father-daughter relationship was supposed to be like. Sharing our troubles, our triumphs. After sixteen years, I finally had that. So, instead of closing up, I shared a piece of my soul with my father, telling him all about Tyler, the break-ins, Charlie’s reappearance, Whitman’s murder, Charlie’s disappearance, and the day I found out the truth of who Tyler really was.
When I was done, I expected him to want to know more about Charlie, but I was mistaken.
“It’s clear you love him very much,” he commented.
“Who? Charlie?”