Chapter 4: Ghosts and Promises

My father was eventually sentenced to ten years.

The trial dragged on for months, but in the end, the verdict was swift. Ten years, no chance of parole. He went quietly, shoulders slumped, eyes hollow. The town barely noticed.

When I visited him in prison, he had already heard about my mother’s death, but the first thing he asked was, “Did you move into the Sullivan house?”

The glass between us was smudged with fingerprints, the room buzzing with other people’s whispered regrets. My father sat behind the glass, eyes darting around, searching for good news. I told him I’d moved into the big house on the hill, and he smiled for the first time in months.

I nodded and said I had.

It was a lie, but I said it anyway. He wanted to believe we’d finally made it. I couldn’t take that hope away from him—not now.

My father sighed, “Mr. Sullivan is really loyal. He gave your grandparents thirty thousand dollars and especially kept you. He also said that when I get out, he’ll buy me a Land Rover. By then, your dad will be someone who drives a Land Rover.”

He leaned in, voice full of longing. “A Land Rover, can you believe it? That’s real money, real power.” He didn’t mention Mom, didn’t ask about my sister. All he cared about was the promise of something better, something bigger.

I didn’t ask my father why he never mentioned Mom or my sister.

There was no point. His dreams were his armor, his escape. If he thought about the truth, it would destroy him. Maybe it already had.

He had his own dreams of the underworld, his own fantasies of making it big.

He talked about the good old days—about the deals, the risks, the taste of victory. He never saw the cost, never counted the bodies. I let him talk, because it was all he had left.

Ten years in prison for millions in assets, earning a hundred thousand a year, even at the cost of his wife and daughter, and then marrying someone new.

To him, it was just math—a trade-off, a cost of doing business. “When I get out, things will be different,” he promised. “We’ll start over.” I knew he was already planning his next move, already leaving the past behind.

I know a lot of people would think it’s worth it.

Some would envy him, admire his ruthlessness. In this world, money was everything, and conscience was optional. I wondered if I’d ever see things the same way.

So I didn’t ask. I just listened to him talk endlessly about the future, but all I could think about was Mom holding my sister’s little hand, walking down the country road.

His words faded into the background. All I saw was the memory of Mom and my sister, hand in hand, walking away from me. Their backs grew smaller and smaller, swallowed by the long, dusty road. I reached for them, but they always slipped away.

I tried so hard to catch up to them, but could never reach them.

No matter how fast I ran, the distance never closed. They belonged to another world now, a world I couldn’t enter. The ache in my chest never faded.

That day, after leaving the prison, I swallowed my sorrow and told myself: I will definitely reunite with them.

I clenched my fists, fingernails biting into my palms, and promised myself I’d find them again—no matter how long it took.

Moving into the Sullivan house was the beginning of my nightmare’s next chapter.

The mansion on the hill loomed above the town, windows like watchful eyes. Every creak of the old floorboards echoed with memories I didn’t want. I hauled my duffel bag up the steps, feeling the weight of the past pressing down on me. I knew things would never be the same.