My knees gave out when I read the second line.
“I was driving the vehicle that caused your parents’ deaths.”
I collapsed to the floor.
Nineteen years earlier, my parents had been killed in a car accident. I was ten years old. The police had told me that the driver responsible had fled the scene and was never found.
The letter continued.
William wrote that he had not been drunk that night. He had worked for a massive construction company whose executives forced him to transport dangerous materials in a damaged vehicle.
The brakes had failed.
After the crash, the company’s owner paid a police officer to close the investigation and make sure the blame remained on an unidentified driver.
William tried to speak out, but they threatened to kill both him and me.
He fled the city and changed his last name, but for years, he secretly watched over my life.
