You met Harriet, the flower shop lady. Yeah, she witnessed the robbery. Right. Well, Margaret is 86, lives in a care facility now. But back in the day she was a labor and delivery nurse at Good Samaritan Hospital.
Worked there from 1968 to 1995. Wyatt's eyes met Jack's. She remembers Linda Morrison, Linda Webb as she was before the marriage. Jack's heart rate picked up. She remembers the pregnancy.
She remembers more than that. She remembers Linda coming in 4 months pregnant in July of 1972. Franklin had just died. Linda was devastated. Margaret was assigned to her case because they'd known each other socially.
Linda had taught Margaret's daughter in elementary school. What happened? Linda delivered a healthy baby boy in November 1972, full term, no complications, but Wyatt paused. Linda made Margaret promise not to tell anyone, said the baby wasn't safe. That the same people who'd killed Franklin would come for the child if they knew he existed.
She begged Margaret to falsify the records, to make it look like the baby had died. Jack set down his beer. Margaret did it. Margaret did it. Against every rule in the book, against her own better judgment, she did it.
Because she believed Linda. Because she'd seen the fear in that woman's eyes. Because Wyatt's voice dropped. Because Margaret had also heard the rumors about Franklin Morrison's death not being an accident, about powerful people being involved, about corruption that went all the way to the top. What name did Linda give the baby?
Marcus. Marcus Webb, not Morrison. She wanted to keep him completely separate from that name, from that danger. There it was, confirmation. Jack's theory was right.
Marcus Webb was Franklin Morrison's son. Margaret kept the secret for 50 years, Wyatt continued. Never told anyone, not even her own family. She said it was the hardest thing she ever did watching that baby be recorded as dead when he was alive and healthy. But she believed she was saving his life.
Jack absorbed this, processed it, the weight of it settling into his bones. Does Margaret know where Linda took the baby? Tucson initially, then California. Then back to Arizona eventually, but Flagstaff, not Phoenix. Linda raised Marcus away from everyone who'd known Franklin, away from the Morrison family, away from the danger.
And now he's back, looking for answers about a father he never knew. Wyatt nodded. That's my read on it. Margaret said something else interesting. She said Linda came to see her about 6 months ago, right before Linda died.
Linda told her the secret would die with her, but that she'd left a letter for Marcus, telling him everything, asking him to understand why she'd lied. 6 months ago, Jack said. That's when Marcus started searching. That's when this all started. Looks like it.
Jack stood, paced to the window, looked out at the Phoenix night. So tomorrow when I meet him, I'm not meeting an enemy. I'm meeting family, a cousin I never knew existed, a man who's been living under false pretenses his entire life. Maybe, Wyatt said carefully, or maybe you're meeting a man who's angry, who feels betrayed, who wants revenge for his father's death and doesn't care who gets hurt in the process. You think he'd hurt my mother deliberately?
I think grief makes people do things they wouldn't normally do. I think finding out your whole life was a lie can twist a man up inside. Wyatt's eyes were serious. I think you need to go into that meeting prepared for anything, including the possibility that Marcus Webb isn't the man you want him to be. Jack thought about that, about the Marcus Webb he'd constructed in his mind, a man searching for truth, for connection, for understanding of his father's legacy.
But Wyatt was right. That was speculation, hope even. The reality might be very different. I'll be careful, Jack said. You already promised your mama you wouldn't lose yourself.
Make sure you keep that promise even if things get ugly. I will. Wyatt's phone buzzed. He checked it. Tommy, he found something.
Jack moved closer as Wyatt read the message. Birth certificate, Marcus Francis Webb, born November 14th, 1972. Tucson, Arizona. Mother Linda Marie Webb, father unknown. Wyatt looked up.
The father field is blank. Linda made sure of that. No legal connection to Franklin Morrison at all. Smart, Jack said. Protects the child from anyone who might come looking.
Or protects the family from claims on the Morrison estate, depending on how cynical you want to be. Jack shook his head. I don't think it was about money. I think it was about survival. Linda saw what happened to Franklin.
She wasn't going to let it happen to their son. So what's your plan tomorrow? Jack sat back down, thought about it. I tell him the truth, all of it. I show him the microfilm.
Let him see the evidence his father died collecting. Let him understand what Franklin was trying to do. And if he wants to destroy it, to protect the Webb family name, then I tell him the truth about that, too. That his grandfather, Colonel James Webb, was one of the men on that list, one of the men Franklin was investigating. That his grandfather was likely involved in ordering Franklin's death.
Jack's voice was steady. And then I let him choose, destroy the evidence and protect a legacy built on corruption and murder, or release it and honor his father's sacrifice. That's a hell of a choice to put on a man. It's the same choice my father faced, the same choice I'm facing now, the same choice anyone faces when they discover their family secrets. Jack met Wyatt's eyes.
The only difference is this time the person making the choice gets to make it with full knowledge, with truth, not fear. Wyatt nodded slowly. You've thought this through. I've had 67 years to think about what it means to carry family shame, to wonder if your father was a coward or just a man doing his best in an impossible situation. I'm not going to let Marcus spend the rest of his life wondering the same thing about Franklin, even if the truth destroys him.
The truth won't destroy him. The lies already did that. The truth, painful as it is, that's what sets you free. They sat in for a while. Two old men in a garage surrounded by machines and memories trying to figure out how to fix something that had been broken for half a century.
You should get some rest, Wyatt finally said. You got He checked his watch. 7 hours till that meeting. I'm not going to sleep. Figured as much, but you can rest.
You can think. You can prepare. Wyatt gestured to the cot in the back office. Stay here. I'll keep working.
When Tommy sends anything else, I'll wake you. Jack wanted to argue. Wanted to insist he needed to keep moving, keep thinking, keep doing something. But Wyatt was right. He needed to be sharp tomorrow.
Needed to be present. Needed to be the best version of himself he could manage. Okay, Jack said. Thanks, preacher. We take care of our own.
Wyatt's voice was gruff. Even the ones who left the life. Maybe especially them. Jack moved to the cot, lay down, stared at the ceiling. Listen to Wyatt moving around the garage, the familiar sounds of tools and work, and a life lived in service of fixing things.
His phone buzzed. Text from the hospital. Mr. Morrison, your mother is resting well. All vitals stable. She asked about you when she woke briefly.
We told her you'd be by in the morning. Dr. Patterson, Jack typed back. Thank you. I'll be there. He thought about visiting Martha before the meeting.