Chapter 4: Seven Years Later

Seven Years Later

“Are you really sure you want to do this?”

Aunt Camille’s concerned, almost trembling voice filtered into my ears that morning, even though I had spent both nights and days trying to convince her.

“You know there’s nothing you’re going to say that would change my mind, Aunt,” I murmured quietly, my eyes fixed on my reflection as I check myself out slowly in front of the full-length mirror in my room.

The blue dress, striped faintly with silver I was wearing clung to the thick curves I’d somehow managed to build over the years. Curves born from survival. From healing and from learning to love a body that had once only known shame. 

It hadn't been easy if I must say but the most important thing was that I had done it yes I had, gotten rid of the one thing that had almost felt impossible, my fat and now I could easily say I was pretty.

“Yes, but have you thought about the possibility of it being a sham?”

Her next words made me freeze, My hands stilled at my sides in that instant as I lifted my gaze to meet hers through the mirror.

 She stood in the doorway, arms folded tightly across her chest, worry etched deep into her face. Her lips were pressed together like she was holding back everything she was afraid to say.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Aunt?” I asked slowly, adjusting my posture before turning fully to face her.

“I mean… it’s been years, Beverly,” she said carefully. “Do you really think there’s such a thing as a fake death? Or something like that?”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight.

“I told you already,” I said, forcing calm into my voice, “the circumstances surrounding Tristan’s death were strange. Complicated. I was too clouded by grief back then to really look into it. But now… now I’m ready.”

“And what proof do you have that it wasn’t just an accident?” she rasped. “Some mail from an anonymous person years after his death?”

I exhaled sharply and turned away, my gaze dropping to my phone lying on the dresser beside the mirror.

The screen was still on.

The email still open.

'Hi Mrs. Hawthorne, this is Doc R. If this somehow gets to you, just know I’ve got some information about your late son, Tristan Hawthorne--the truth about his death. Unfortunately, it’s not something I can send via electronic devices because of where I based currently. I’d advise we meet physically here in Michigan. Send a text message to the number at the bottom of this message if you get here, and I’ll call to tell you where we can meet. Then we can talk about everything'

Just that, A hidden number. No full name. No address.No explanation of how he got my current contact.

And I understood why Aunt Camille was scared. Anyone would be especially with a mail like this who knows it could actually be someone trying to fool me.

But the truth was k wasn’t really going back because of the content in the mail.

Actually a week before that email arrived, I'd had this urge to go through Tristan’s autopsy report again--after years of avoiding it like a wound that refused to close I had done it out of boredom. But then, this time, I saw things, things that didn’t add up. Things my grief-clouded mind had refused to acknowledge before.

It was as if my medical training had sharpened my eyes and now I could see things, see past medical lies and forged results.

And if this “Doctor R” claimed to know something anything that could help me stake my claim that perhaps my son hadn't die the way I was made to believe he did then who was I to ignore it?

If it urned out to be a sham fine. But one thing is certain Tristan died in Michigan.

And if I were to follow the trail the autopsy was pointing me toward, it meant going back there to investigate irregardless. This trip was inevitable.

“That’s not the only reason I’m going, Aunt,” I said finally . “But you should know this I know what I’m doing. And even if it doesn’t turn out to be true…let it be that I tried.”

For reasons best known to me I stayed vague. Not because I didn’t trust her but because I couldn’t risk voicing everything yet until it's been confirmed and from the way her shoulders relaxed just a fraction, I knew she understood.

“And maybe,” I continued softly, “this way I’ll finally get closure.”

That was another issue.

I hadn’t really healed from Tristan’s death. Trying to salvage a failed marriage hadn’t allowed it back then in Michigan when it first happened but coming to Dasu hadn’t helped either. The ache never truly left.

It only left me temporarily when I went back to Medical school to further my studies and pursue my dreams I had once abandon because of love it had been my only escape—burying myself in textbooks, exams, night shifts. It dulled the pain, but it never erased it.

Now that I had graduated had a job and had somehow managed to build a name for myself… it just came rushing back.

Like I was missing out on something concerning his death and unless I figured it out I won't be able to let him go and that was what prompted me to look into the autopsy in the first place.

“Okay,” Aunt Camille said slowly, studying me. “I get it now. But you know that place has a lot of… you know...”

She trailed off, her eyes heavy with meaning.

“Are you sure you don’t want to send someone over instead?” she asked quietly.

I knew what she meant understood why she was still skeptical yet again.

It was because of what happened back there and that should have been enough reason for me not to return.

But this was my son.

What kind of mother would I be if I avoided seeking the truth about my son because of fear and trauma or the past?

“It’s okay,” I muttered. “I didn’t spend years rebuilding myself just to cower the moment I find a chance to avenge my son. I won't avoid this just because Michigan hold terrible memories of me.” I said my voice hardened with resolve and God know I meant every word.

“And him?” she asked yet again giving me a more meaningful look. “Have you thought about the possibility of running into him?”

I didn’t need her to say the name.

“I can handle Marcus, Aunt,” I said firmly. The name tasted bitter, metallic. “You don’t have to worry about that. Or anything else. I’m grown enough to take care of myself now.” I said offering her a small, warm smile. She studied my face for a long moment before nodding slowly.

“Yeah I’m just worried about you,” she admitted. “You know how you came back years ago. I’d be damned if something happens to you again.”

“I understand,” I said softly. “But you have to trust me. I’ll be fine.”

She hesitated then sighed.

“Alright,” she said at last, offering a gentle smile. “I wish you a safe trip.”

Relief flooded me almost immediately as I crossed the room to her and wrapped my arms around her, burying my face in her shoulder.

“Thank you for believing in me, Aunt,” I whispered. “I promise I won’t disappoint you.”

She nodded, patting my back slowly, her touch steadying and grounding me.

And for the first time in years, I felt like I was finally walking toward the truth instead of running from it.