Chapter 3: A Father's Sin

My name is Marcus Howell. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved suspense and detective stories, and I was determined to apply to the police academy, hoping to become a criminal investigator.

Back then, I thought my future would be smooth sailing.

The accident happened in the summer of 1997, when I was seventeen. My father was taking me to the SATs.

Before I entered the testing center, my father called me over, looked at me intently, hesitated, then finally said, “You’ll do well and get into the police academy.”

At the time, I didn’t notice anything unusual—just thought it was the usual encouragement. I nodded and went in.

I did well. After the last exam, I hurried out, eager to share my joy with my father.

But my father was gone.

For every major exam, my father would wait for me outside.

He’d stand by his old Chevy Impala, anxiously watching the door. When I came out and squeezed through the crowd to him, he’d still be scanning the faces.

I’d call out, and he’d light up, slap the car roof, and say, “Son, you’re done! Let’s go home.”

I’d hop in the passenger seat, chattering about how easy the questions were; he’d smile, tell me to be humble, and drive us home, windows down, the wind rushing in.

There was always a pack of wintergreen mints in the cupholder, and a half-drunk cup of coffee in the console, the dashboard dusted with years of sun and stories. Dad would crank up the radio—oldies, usually—and sing along off-key as we rattled down the back roads.

My father drove me everywhere—up hills, down muddy roads. The wheels turned through the years; the shoulders in front of me grew more stooped, but always felt strong.

These little things became habits, so I took them as the natural order of the world. My father was my silent, steadfast support, so I could charge ahead without worry.

But once that pattern broke, I was left lost and panicked.

I searched outside the testing center, running and shouting, describing an ordinary middle-aged man to passersby. But he was too ordinary—no one noticed him.

I searched everywhere, my heart uneasy.

Nothing could have happened, I told myself—maybe he just went home first.

But when I got home alone, he wasn’t there either.

My father was missing.

I kept expecting Dad’s voice to call my name in the crowd. The silence felt too loud.

My mother said that the night before the exam, my father had been inexplicably irritable and they’d quarreled. Maybe he left in anger and would return in a few days.

I found this strange, but could only accept it.

A man leaving home isn’t something people like to talk about. We kept it quiet and searched on our own, but after days, there was still no news.

The SATs really became a turning point—after it ended, my father vanished from the world.

I couldn’t understand why he’d abandon us. Looking back, there were no warning signs. My father had always been steady, honest, and family-oriented, caring for us in the quiet way of most American dads.

I never doubted his love. But he left all the same.

My mother also said, “Could he have gone to look for your brother?”

I have a brother, five years older, born with an eye disorder.

He left home early to work and never returned, as if he’d vanished too.

Could that be the reason? My gut said no.

A month later, neighbors noticed something was wrong and called the police. The kind neighbor described my father’s appearance, height, weight, and so on.

The police came, looking serious. They didn’t talk about searching for a missing person; instead, they collected fingerprints everywhere.

The next day, they came back, bringing with them my father’s shocking secret.

In 1985, in a remote rural county in a neighboring state, a family of five was murdered—no survivors.

The crime scene was isolated, the family lived alone, so there were no witnesses.

The police investigated relationships but found nothing. The killer wasn’t an enemy, just a stranger passing through, which made the case much harder to solve.

They collected fingerprints from the scene and the murder weapon, and got a rough description of the suspect through interviews, but found no leads. The case went cold for twelve years.

But murder cases are never abandoned. A young officer back then became obsessed with the case. More than ten years later, that officer was transferred to our county. When my father’s disappearance was reported, he sensed something.

The police collected my father’s fingerprints and compared them to the old case. They matched.

The moment I learned the truth, it was as if my heart was being hammered, pressed down again and again.

In 1985, I was five. My father worked away from home, but when he came back, he’d bring me toys and take me hiking. His warm, big hand held mine—I never knew it was stained with blood.

After I started school, my father drove me to and from school, urging me to study hard, praising me for being a good kid. Those scenes of wind and laughter faded to black and white, and finally shattered.

The tall figure I trusted collapsed overnight; the deep fatherly love became an illusion.

The world broke and reassembled. All that remained was a cold truth—

My father was a murderer.

My father killed a family of five and ran. He returned to us as if nothing had happened, continuing his peaceful life.

He hid it well, so my mother and I, completely unaware, became the family of a murderer.

Then, when I was seventeen, he disappeared again without a word.

It was not just an emotional blow, but a practical one too.

A direct relative committing a serious crime has serious consequences; my dream of becoming a police officer was shattered.

So, I didn’t apply to the police academy, but went to a regular science and engineering university for bioengineering. I graduated, worked, step by step, just like everyone else.

After my father disappeared in 1997, he never returned. The family murder case was never solved.

The heat of the case faded, but the police never gave up. My father was listed as a fugitive, a warrant issued for his arrest.

My family was broken. My mother died of illness after I graduated college, my brother never returned, and I moved to the city where I live now, leaving our old home empty.

After graduation, I worked at a microbiology research institute for a few years. My life was monotonous; besides writing novels, I raised reptiles. In 2009, I met my true love, Natalie. We married, and life went on quietly.

Until 2011, when the police found a skeleton in a remote valley near my hometown.

Based on the climate and degree of decomposition, they estimated the person had died 10–15 years ago, between 1996 and 2001, which matched when my father disappeared in 1997.

The bone age showed the person was 30–40 at death, matching my father’s age at the time (40).

The body was fully skeletonized, so fingerprints were useless. But now, there was DNA testing.

In 1985, when the murder happened, technology was limited and only fingerprints were collected.

In 1997, after my father disappeared, the police compared his fingerprints and confirmed he was the murderer, but DNA technology was still primitive. They only preserved my blood sample in the database.

By 2011, DNA technology had matured. The police extracted DNA from the bones and compared it to mine—it showed a father-son relationship.

It took decades, but thanks to technology, there was finally convincing evidence.

The skeleton at the foot of the mountain was my father, missing for years. The police soon notified me.

Even after so many years, I still remembered what my father wore the day he took me to the exam—a striped undershirt. Now, the remains of clothing on the skeleton still faintly showed that pattern.

With the fugitive dead, there was no more criminal responsibility. The family murder case was closed, and the shadow my father cast over me finally lifted.

Since it was over, there was no need to talk about it again, so I never told my wife, Natalie.