| Romance Fiction posted September 30, 2025 | Chapters: |
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Rachel Confronts Mark
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
The Untold Story Chap 9
by Begin Again
After reassuring Lizzie that Rachel was going to be all right, the trio walked outside and crossed the street to Arnie's. The bell announced their arrival, and several heads turned. After a few hellos and waves, they worked their way to a back booth.
Rachel slid in first with the manila envelope on her lap. Noah took the outside seat. Karen flagged the waitress for coffee without asking. Bill arrived last, cap in his hands, the brim working a slow circle under his thumb.
"You all right?" he asked, voice low. Concern creased his face.
"I will be," Rachel said. "I'm glad you could join us." She made introductions, and he slid into the booth next to Karen.
"You walked with Julia, didn't you? At the cemetery?" Karen asked.
Bill nodded. "Now I visit her there, but it's not the same." He sighed; age and weariness were immediately apparent.
Rachel waited for the waitress to fill Bill's cup, then set the manila envelope on the table. Bill stared at it but didn't comment, trusting she'd speak when she was ready.
She lifted the flap. "I know you and Anthony were close and that you always suspected my father was involved in his disappearance," she said softly. "We've found proof."
"Would I be right to guess your mom always had it?"
Rachel's eyes filled. She reached across to take Bill's hand. "Yes. I don't know why she didn't develop the film. I also found a disposable camera with a note signed
Sharon — she'd taken pictures of a fight outside Miller's and told Mom to do what she wanted with them. She did nothing. I don't understand, Bill. She loved Anthony. Why wouldn't she give the film to the police?"
"She never shared what went on inside her home," he said. "But makeup never hid all the bruises. I prayed she'd trust me enough to share, but—" He caught his breath, stared at the table. "Now it's too late."
"It's not too late," Rachel said, her voice trembling. "We have proof." She patted the envelope. "It might not be enough, but it's a start."
Bill's fingers rubbed the brim of his cap. "Show me."
She eased the first glossy halfway into the light.
Shaggy grass. A grill leaning on one good leg. Anthony's mouth open mid-word. Joe's fist already moving. The square watch burned like a dare.
Bill's breath snagged. "I was supposed to be there," he said, barely audible. "Walk him home, like every Friday. I —" The brim bent under his grip. "I was late."
Noah didn't fill the silence. Karen didn't either. They both sat silent, allowing Bill and Rachel to work through the photos.
Rachel slid the following picture — fence slats, throwing thin shadows. Tessa half-turned, Mrs. Lawson's hand braced on her arm, both faces locked on the yard.
The next — the mirror — blood threaded down from the hairline; the towel clenched uselessly in Julia's fist.
And last — the small back, welts laddered, a warped reflection at the edge of a mirror, a belt raised mid-air.
Bill's hand lifted, then stopped, as if touching would make it worse. His eyes glistened, but the tears didn't spill. "Honey," he said to Rachel, a word older than the room. "I'm sorry I was late."
"You're here now," Rachel said. She closed the stack and fastened the clasp. Her palm stayed there, warm through the paper. She drew in a breath that scraped and steadied. "I have to see Mark. We've got to talk."
Noah shifted. "Not alone. I'll go."
She shook her head once. "No. I need to do this myself."
Bill set the cap on the table and folded his hands around it, as if in prayer. "Look him in the eye, girl," he said gently. "Let the truth stand between you and see which of you steps around it."
Rachel nodded. The waitress came by with a pot and topped cups mechanically, her smile small and uncurious. Outside, a truck rumbled past. The world continued to pretend that life was normal.
Rachel tucked the envelope under her arm. "I won't be long."
Noah's jaw worked. He didn't argue. "Call me," he said. "Any way this goes."
She met his eyes. Something in her chest eased a fraction. "I will."
*****
The Civic sat idling in the driveway. Rachel had felt braver at the diner, held up by her friends. On the short drive from Main to Ashland, the nerves began to build. She wasn't sure how to approach Mark — her own brother was a stranger to her. He'd always carried a chip on his shoulder; now she thought she knew why, but did that account for everything else? How many secrets were hidden within these walls?
The Civic sat idling in the driveway. Rachel had felt braver at the diner, held up by her friends. On the short drive from Main to Ashland, the nerves began to build. She wasn't sure how to approach Mark — her own brother was a stranger to her. He'd always carried a chip on his shoulder; now she thought she knew why, but did that account for everything else? How many secrets were hidden within these walls?
She shut off the car and climbed out, standing a moment to catch her breath and find the strength to do what she'd come to do. She climbed the porch stairs and let the screen door slap the frame behind her.
"Mark?" Her voice was louder than she expected.
He appeared from the dining room with a pen behind his ear and a stack of envelopes in his hand. Tired, unshaven, annoyed at being interrupted. "Well," he said. "Look who finally showed up."
"We need to talk."
"Talk?" He set the stack on the buffet, shuffling envelopes like they mattered. "You think words unravel this mess? If you're here to help, the lawyer wants death certificates certified, utilities are a mess, and the roof —"
"Mark, where are the clock and Grandmother's brooch?"
His hands froze, clenching the papers he'd been looking at. He didn't look up. He snarled, "Not this again. The clock's being repaired; the brooch is getting appraised. You sound like a stuck record. Anything else?"
"Yes. I'd like to see Mom's checkbook and the CDs."
He laughed once, a single hard exhale. "What gives you the right? You've never cared before."
"That's a lie. Every time I asked if Mom needed anything, you shut me out. You told me she didn't want charity from me." She inhaled sharply, swatting away the tears that threatened. "I wanted to help. I just couldn't come home with Joe here. And then you told me he died —" She crossed to the window and her mother's chair. "Do you know how much guilt I carried? And for what? It was a lie."
"You heard what you wanted to hear. You never wanted to come back."
"You're right — I didn't. But I would have if you'd told me the truth. All of it."
"What do you know about truth?" The words came fast, practiced. "You call twice a year and call that help? You swoop in with your big eyes and act like I picked Mom's pockets."
She swallowed. "Did you?"
He stepped toward her, anger warming his face. "I kept this place standing. Appointments. Pharmacy. Nights she couldn't sleep. Where were you when Mom needed you?"
The question landed like a slap. She had answers. They crowded in her mouth and found no way out.
She set the envelope on the table and opened the clasp with a click.
He watched her fingers, then the paper. "What is that?"
"The truth." Her voice felt like it belonged to someone else. "Things you already know."
He snorted. "You brought me gossip in a manila envelope?"
She slid the first photo out and set it face up: the yard, the swing, the watch.
He didn't look at it at first. He looked at her, as if the trick might be in her face.
"Tell me that's nothing," she said.
He glanced. The muscle in his jaw flicked. "Looks like two idiots throwing punches thirty years ago. Looks like nothing."
"Anthony," she said. "Joe."
"Looks like nothing," he repeated, louder. "And even if it was something, what do you want? To reach backward and rearrange it?"
She set the second down —Tessa half-turned, Mrs. Lawson's hand pinched white on her sleeve.
"The neighbors saw," she said.
"Neighbors saw plenty," he shot back. "They were afraid. So they turned their backs on us."
She set the third — Julia's reflection, blood at the hairline, towel balled, chin up like she might dare the mirror to say it out loud. "And this?"
"Stop!" The word came sharp and reflexive, like he'd touched a hot stove. His eyes cut from the photo to Rachel's face and away again. "What are you doing? Let sleeping dogs lie."
She slid the last one free — the child's back, welts raised, a belt lifted in the ghost of a mirror.
Something flinched in him and vanished. "That could be anybody," he said too quickly. "You don't even see a face. People take pictures. People —"
"It's my wallpaper," she said quietly. "My room."
Silence lifted the hair on her arms.
He moved first. "If Mom asked me to do something, I did it. Where were you when she needed you? Where were you when I was carrying everything? You left. You left me to it. So don't stand in our kitchen and wave old paper at me like you've got a right."
"You're right — you were here," she said. "But was it all for Mom's benefit? Why did you let Joe do those things to her? And murder?"
Mark's face turned red. He snarled, "Murder? Joe was good to me. He gave me things. I believed him — and he said there was no body."
Her grip on the chair back tightened until her fingers hurt. The photos made a hard little row on the table. Each one tugged a thread she'd knotted down for years. The knot loosened. The room swam.
She looked at the photos until they began to blur. "Did you love him?" she asked, surprising herself.
"Who? Joe?" He shrugged. "As long as I kept my mouth shut and stayed out of his way, there was always an extra hundred on the table. If I mentioned wanting something, it appeared the next day. No explanation."
"Did you love Anthony at all?"
He stared like she'd switched languages. "He was a man my mother knew," he said. "A long time ago. He died. And I had to keep going."
He gathered the papers from the buffet and stacked them neatly. "If you're done, I have calls. You can let yourself out."
Her mouth opened. Nothing came. She lifted the envelope with clumsy fingers, slid the photos in, got the clasp wrong, and tried again. She walked stiffly across the room and opened the door. The hinges creaked as if they, too, were crying for what lived in the house.
She made it to the car and sat there, stunned. She'd just been told to leave her own home by someone she almost didn't even recognize. Was this the real Mark — cold, calculating, and powerless to the man they'd called their father?
The keys lay in her palm. She pocketed them and decided to walk — somewhere the dead might listen. Somewhere, Faith, Love, and Hope still stood tall.
Behind her, the house stood still, but she couldn't shake the thought — if Mark had learned to live with lies this long, what else was buried inside?
 Recognized |
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