A bare mattress rested on the floor.
Beside it sat a plastic cup of water and a bowl of cold oatmeal.
And near the window was my father.
Arthur Hayes.
Seventy years old.
Thirty years with the FBI.
A man who had spent most of my childhood surviving on black coffee and stubbornness.
Now he sat slumped in a wheelchair, staring blankly at the wall.
“Dad?”
Nothing.
I moved closer.
Then I saw his wrists.
Dark bruises circled them.
More bruising covered his forearms.
I knelt beside him.
“Dad, can you hear me?”
His right hand rested limply against the wheelchair.
Then two fingers moved.
Tap.
Tap.
Pause.
Three quick taps.
I stared.
It wasn’t a tremor.
Dad had taught me Morse code when I was nine.
His fingers continued.
W-I-F-E L-Y-I-N-G.
My heart began pounding.
I kept my expression neutral.
