PART 2 — THE FACES HIDDEN IN HIS TATTOOS
Dana held the photograph out to me with both hands.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
It showed a hospital room.
Dana was lying in a bed, her face partially bandaged, one arm wrapped from wrist to shoulder.
Beside her stood an older woman and a teenage boy.
But it was what the boy was holding that made my breath catch.
A drawing.
A crude child’s drawing made with colored pencils.
It showed a man carrying a woman away from an orange-and-red fire.
The man had blue and black markings covering both arms.
Brad’s tattoos.
“Who drew this?” I whispered.
“My little brother,” Dana said.
I looked at the teenage boy in the photograph.
“He was eight then.”
Dana smiled through her tears.
“He came to visit me after I woke up. I couldn’t remember everything that had happened, so I described the man who saved me.”
She looked at Brad.
“I remembered his tattoos more clearly than his face.”
Brad stared at the photograph.
His expression wasn’t pride.
It was pain.
Dana continued.
“My brother drew what I described. My mother kept that picture framed in our house for years.”
I wiped my face.
“Why?”
“Because our father died when we were children.”
Dana’s voice trembled.
“My mother used to tell my brother that when he felt like there weren’t good people left in the world, he should look at that drawing and remember that a complete stranger once ran toward a burning car for someone he didn’t know.”
I looked at Brad.
My husband lowered his eyes.
“Brad…”
He shook his head.
“Please.”
But suddenly I understood something.
Brad hadn’t covered his tattoos because he regretted them.
At least, that wasn’t the entire truth.
He covered them because they could identify him.
“Is this why?”
He looked at me.
“Is this why you’ve been hiding your arms for all these years?”
His face changed.
Dana looked between us.
“What do you mean?”
“He never shows his tattoos in public.”
Dana’s expression softened.
“Because of what happened?”
Brad immediately answered.
“No.”
Too quickly.
I knew my husband.
I knew when he was avoiding something.
“Then why?”
Our children were standing a few feet away.
Molly was still wrapped in Brad’s shirt.
Our oldest son, Ethan, was watching his father with confused eyes.
Brad glanced at them.
“Not here.”
“Brad, this woman just told me you saved her from a burning car and never mentioned it once in seven years.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still hiding something.”
“I’m asking you to trust me.”
“I have trusted you.”
My voice cracked.
“For twelve years.”
Brad closed his eyes.
Dana quietly said, “There’s something else.”
Brad’s eyes opened immediately.
“Dana.”
She looked at him.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I think I do.”
The fear in his voice silenced all of us.
Dana reached into her bag again.
This time, she removed a folded newspaper clipping.
“I carried this for years too.”
She handed it to me.
The headline read:
UNKNOWN MAN RESCUES WOMAN SECONDS BEFORE VEHICLE EXPLODES
There was a blurry photograph beneath it.
Brad.
He was turned away from the camera.
But his arms were visible.
The tattoos were unmistakable.
I almost smiled.
Then I noticed something circled in red ink near the bottom of the article.
Authorities are also seeking the unidentified rescuer as a possible witness in connection with another incident that occurred approximately two miles from the crash.
I read it twice.
“What other incident?”
Dana shook her head.
“I never knew.”
Brad took the clipping from my hands.
His face had gone pale.
“Where did you get this?”
“My mother saved it.”
“You need to throw it away.”
Dana stared at him.
“What?”
“Throw it away.”
“Brad.”
He turned toward me.
“We’re leaving.”
“What happened two miles away?”
“Nothing that concerns us anymore.”
“Then tell me.”
He didn’t.
He took Molly’s hand.
“Kids, we’re going home.”
I had never heard Brad speak to them like that.
Not angrily.
Fearfully.
Ethan noticed too.
“Dad?”
“It’s okay, buddy.”
It clearly wasn’t.
Dana stepped toward him.
“Bradley, wait.”
Brad froze again.
“You keep calling him Bradley,” I said.
“Because that’s what the police officer called him.”
Brad slowly turned around.
Dana continued.
“I remembered after seeing the article.”
“What police officer?”
“The one who came to my hospital room.”
Brad’s face drained completely.
“He showed me photographs of several men.”
I looked at Brad.
“Why?”
“They were trying to identify the person who pulled me from the car.”
“No.”
Dana shook her head.
“They already knew who you were.”
Brad stared at her.
“What?”
“The officer said they needed me to confirm whether the man who saved me was Bradley Mercer.”
My stomach dropped.
Mercer?
Our surname was Lawson.
I looked at my husband.
“Who is Bradley Mercer?”
Nobody spoke.
I stepped backward.
“Brad?”
He stared at the floor.
“That’s me.”
The store seemed to disappear around me.
“What do you mean that’s you?”
“It was my name.”
“Was?”
“Before I changed it.”
My throat tightened.
“You changed your name?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before I met you.”
I stared at the man I’d married.
The man whose last name I had taken.
The man whose name our three children carried.
“Why?”
Brad looked toward the kids.
“Please. Not here.”
I wanted to demand an answer.
But then I saw Ethan listening.
So I swallowed everything.
“Fine.”
We exchanged numbers with Dana.
Then we left.
The drive home was silent.
Brad kept both hands on the steering wheel.
For once, his tattoos remained uncovered.
I couldn’t stop looking at them.
What else had I never noticed?
When we reached home, Brad helped Molly change.
He made the children sandwiches.
He acted almost normal.
That somehow made everything worse.
After the kids went upstairs, I placed Dana’s newspaper clipping on the kitchen table.
“Talk.”
Brad remained standing.
“My legal name was Bradley Mercer until I was twenty-four.”
“Why did you change it?”
“Because I needed to disappear.”
My stomach tightened.
“From whom?”
Brad looked at me.
“Some people I used to know.”
“What people?”
He didn’t answer.
I felt anger rising beneath my fear.
“Are you a criminal?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“Did you hurt somebody?”
His answer took too long.
“Brad.”
“I tried to stop somebody from getting hurt.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He pulled out a chair.
For several seconds, he simply stared at his hands.
Then he rolled up his sleeves completely.
“Look at the tattoos.”
“I’ve seen them thousands of times.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“You’ve looked at them. You’ve never known what they mean.”
I moved closer.
Brad’s tattoos weren’t random.
I had always known that.
There were birds.
Dates.
Flowers.
Geometric patterns.
A compass.
A tree.
Several names written so subtly into the designs that they looked decorative.
Brad pointed toward a small set of numbers near his wrist.
“Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“The date my brother died.”
I froze.
“You told me you were an only child.”
“I lied.”
The word hurt more than I expected.
“His name was Michael.”
Brad touched a small bird near his elbow.
“He was nineteen.”
“What happened?”
“He got involved with people he shouldn’t have.”
“What kind of people?”
Brad looked toward the staircase, making sure the children couldn’t hear.
“A group that was stealing cars and stripping them for parts.”
My stomach tightened.
“Michael worked for them?”
“At first.”
“And you?”
“No.”
Brad shook his head.
“I was trying to get him out.”
He pointed toward another tattoo.
A rose wrapped around a broken chain.
“That was for Michael’s girlfriend, Claire.”
“Why?”
“Because she tried to help me.”
Brad’s voice became quieter.
“Michael wanted to leave. The people he worked for wouldn’t let him.”
“What happened to him?”
Brad stared at the table.
“He died in a warehouse fire.”
My hand went to my mouth.
Fire.
Dana’s burning car.
“Was it an accident?”
“No.”
The room went cold.
Brad continued.
“I went to the police.”
“You testified?”
“I tried.”
“What does that mean?”
“The investigation collapsed.”
“Why?”
“Evidence disappeared.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Witnesses suddenly couldn’t remember anything.”
“And you changed your name?”
“Eventually.”
“Because they threatened you?”
Brad nodded.
I looked at his arms.
“Then what do the tattoos have to do with it?”
“They were how people recognized me.”
He pointed toward the compass.
“Michael designed this.”
Then another symbol.
“Claire drew this one.”
Another.
“A friend who helped us.”
I finally understood.
Each tattoo was a piece of Brad’s old life.
He wasn’t ashamed of them.
He was afraid someone would recognize them.
Just like Dana had.
“Then seven years ago, when you saved Dana…”
Brad nodded.
“I’d been living as Brad Lawson for years.”
“But the newspaper photographed your tattoos.”
“Yes.”
“And the police knew you were Bradley Mercer.”
“Yes.”
“What was the incident two miles away?”
Brad’s face changed.
He stood and walked toward the window.
“That night wasn’t the first time I’d seen Dana’s car.”
I felt my heartbeat accelerate.
“What?”
“I saw it about twenty minutes before the crash.”
“Where?”
“At a gas station.”
“Why does that matter?”
Brad looked at me.
“Because somebody was following her.”
I stared at him.
“Who?”
“A black SUV.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
Brad didn’t answer.
Then I understood.
“Someone from your old life?”
He nodded.
“One of the men connected to Michael’s death.”
My skin prickled.
“What did he want with Dana?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Did Dana know him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why follow her?”
“That’s what frightened me.”
Brad sat down again.
“I followed them.”
“You followed the SUV?”
“Yes.”
“Then Dana crashed?”
“No.”
His eyes met mine.
“Someone hit her.”
My stomach dropped.
“The SUV?”
“Yes.”
“They forced her off the road?”
Brad nodded.
“I stopped. The SUV kept going. Dana’s car caught fire.”
“And you rescued her.”
“Yes.”
“What happened afterward?”
“I went looking for the SUV.”
My pulse raced.
“The other incident.”
Brad nodded.
“I found it two miles away.”
“What happened?”
“It had crashed.”
“Was the driver dead?”
“No.”
Brad’s voice became almost a whisper.
“He was gone.”
“Then why were police looking for you?”
“Because someone had been found beside the SUV.”
“Who?”
“A man named Thomas Reed.”
“Did you know him?”
Brad’s face tightened.
“Very well.”
“Who was he?”
“The detective who investigated Michael’s death.”
My mouth went dry.
“What happened to him?”
“He’d been attacked.”
“Did he survive?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he tell police?”
Brad looked directly at me.
“That Bradley Mercer attacked him.”
I stared at him.
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“I never found out.”
“Why would he accuse you?”
“He claimed he saw my tattoos.”
I looked down at Brad’s arms.
Then something occurred to me.
“Could somebody have copied them?”
Brad didn’t answer.
“Brad?”
“I always thought it was possible.”
I felt sick.
“Is that why you cover them?”
“Partly.”
“What is the other reason?”
Brad looked at me for a long moment.
Then he pointed to a tattoo high on his right arm.
A small black triangle surrounded by three lines.
I’d seen it hundreds of times.
“That isn’t mine.”
I stared at it.
“What?”
“I never asked for it.”
“Then how did it get there?”
Brad’s eyes filled.
“The night Michael died.”
My breath caught.
“I woke up outside the warehouse after somebody knocked me unconscious.”
He touched the symbol.
“When I woke up, that had been tattooed onto my arm.”
I felt goosebumps rise across my skin.
“What does it mean?”
“I never knew.”
Suddenly, my phone vibrated on the table.
Dana.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?”
She sounded frightened.
“Is Brad with you?”
“Yes.”
“I went home and showed my mother the picture I took of Brad today.”
Brad stood.
“What happened?”
Dana took a shaky breath.
“My mother recognized one of his tattoos.”
Brad’s face went completely still.
“Which one?”
“The little black triangle.”
Brad grabbed the phone from my hand.
“Dana, listen to me. What did she say?”
There was silence.
Then Dana answered.
“She said she’s seen it before.”
“Where?”
“On my father’s belongings.”
Brad frowned.
“You said your father died when you were young.”
“He did.”
“Who was he?”
Dana began crying.
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“What was his name?”
“Thomas Reed.”
Brad dropped the phone.
I stared at him.
“The detective?”
He nodded slowly.
Dana’s father was the detective who had accused Brad of attacking him.
And suddenly Dana being followed seven years ago didn’t look random anymore.
Brad picked up the phone.
“Dana, where are you?”
“At my mother’s house.”
“Lock the doors.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Brad looked at me.
I could see pure fear in his eyes.
“Your father didn’t die before the highway accident, did he?”
Dana went silent.
Then she whispered, “No.”
“When?”
“Three days afterward.”
“How?”
“They said it was a heart attack.”
Brad closed his eyes.
“Oh God.”
“What?”
“Before he died, did he leave you anything?”
Dana sniffled.
“A box.”
“What was inside?”
“Old case files. Photographs. His police badge.”
“Anything about Michael Mercer?”
Silence.
Then Dana whispered, “Yes.”
Brad’s hand tightened around the phone.
“Don’t touch anything else.”
“Brad, what’s happening?”
He looked at the black triangle on his arm.
“I think your father was trying to tell you who really killed my brother.”
A sound came from upstairs.
Ethan.
“Dad?”
We turned.
Our son stood halfway down the staircase.
His face was pale.
“There’s a man outside.”
Brad immediately moved toward him.
“What man?”
“The one who came to my soccer game last week.”
I froze.
“What are you talking about?”
Ethan pointed toward the front window.
“He said he was your old friend.”
Brad slowly approached the curtain and looked outside.
I watched all the color leave his face.
“Take the kids upstairs.”
“Who is it?”
“Now.”
I grabbed Ethan.
Then someone knocked on our front door.
Three slow knocks.
Brad didn’t move.
Another three knocks.
Then his phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed Brad standing in the store earlier that afternoon.
His tattoos exposed.
Below it were five words.
You should’ve kept them covered.
Brad stared at the message.
Then another arrived.
A photograph of our house.
Taken less than a minute ago.
Underneath it:
Michael should have stayed quiet too.
I felt my blood turn cold.
“Brad…”
He looked toward the front door.
The person knocked again.
Then a man’s voice came through from the other side.
“Bradley Mercer.”
My husband closed his eyes.
The stranger laughed softly.
“It’s been a long time.”
Brad opened his eyes and looked at me.
“Take our children and go out the back.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to find out why Michael really died.”
The doorknob slowly began to turn.
And Brad whispered the words that terrified me most.
“Because the man outside…”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“…is supposed to have been dead for twelve years.”
