Page 124

The paper feels heavier than paper should. Dad’s handwriting crosses the front: Jubilee. For ten years, I would have given almost anything for one more word from him. Now I have pages, and I’m terrified of every single one.

Gage’s hand opens between us. I lace my fingers through his and unfold the letter.

My little joy,

My breath catches. Of course.

If you are reading this, J.J., then I failed to keep a promise. I didn’t come home.

My vision blurs. I blink hard and keep going.

There are things about me you did not know. Things I kept from you because a father is supposed to protect his child from the ugliest parts of himself, though I understand now that hiding the truth is not the same thing as protecting someone.

My grip tightens around Gage’s hand. He says nothing.

I lied about my name. I lied about work. I lied about where I went when I traveled. I hurt people. Some of them badly. There is no version of this letter where I deserve your forgiveness once you understand everything.

A tear hits the page. Fuck.

But there is one thing I never lied about. I stop breathing and keep reading. You.

The word fractures me. Gage’s thumb moves across my knuckles.

Whatever else you learn about Jacob Ricketts, please know this: you were the only person who ever made me wish I’d been a better man before I became your father.

I cover my mouth. “Jesus.”

Gage shifts closer but lets me decide the distance. I close it for him, leaning sideways until my shoulder presses against his chest.

Dad writes about Mom, about the first time I fell asleep on his chest, about building my first computer together, about the horse. Not the full story. Just one line.

You always got back on.

That nearly destroys me more than anything else…until the tone changes.

There are things I cannot safely put into plain words. You always liked puzzles more than instructions anyway.

My tears stop. Not emotionally. My hacker brain just kicked the door open. I straighten.

Gage notices. “What?”

At the bottom of the last page are five rows of paired numbers. I’d assumed they were account numbers or dates. They aren’t. My skin prickles. “No fucking way.”

“What?”

Twenty-three. Fourteen. Thirty-one. Forty-five. Pairs of coordinates in a five-by-five grid. My skin prickles. “Dad taught me this. The first cipher I ever learned.” A laugh breaks loose, shaky and disbelieving. “I was eight. He told me every spy needed a code nobody else could read.”

“You remember it?”

“The method, sure. But we scrambled the letters in our grid. Without the key, it’s—” I’m already reaching for my laptop when the memory punches through. “No. Wait.”

I set the computer aside and grab the battered brown wallet from the end table. Jacob Ricketts’s wallet. Dad’s wallet. I still don’t know which name hurts less. I’ve kept it beside my laptop since the night in the shed. I flip past the old cards, the cracked ID, the photograph, then reach into the rear compartment. My fingertips catch paper. “What the…”

I pull out a tiny square folded into quarters.

Gage leans closer. “That was in there?”

“Tucked behind the lining.” The paper is brittle at the creases. I unfold it. A hand-drawn grid of letters and numbers. My chest tightens so violently I almost laugh. “He kept it.”