Chapter 3 - THE MAN IN THE COAT
“Dad’s coat was buried with him.”
Natalie heard herself say the words.
Tyler went silent.
Across the hotel room, Dana stopped moving.
Their father had owned one distinctive coat for most of Natalie’s childhood—a dark camel-hair overcoat with a brown leather collar and one repaired cuff where Natalie had caught it on a nail when she was ten.
Their mother had chosen it for the funeral.
Natalie remembered touching that cuff before the casket closed.
“You’re sure?” she asked.
“I know what Dad’s coat looked like.”
“Describe the man.”
“I barely saw him.”
“You just said he was behind me.”
“In the photo. His face was turned.”
“Age?”
“Older.”
“How old?”
“I don’t know. Fifty? Sixty?”
Their father would have been sixty-three.
Natalie felt anger rise.
“Don’t do this.”
“I’m not saying Dad’s alive.”
“Good.”
“I’m saying somebody wore his coat.”
Dana wrote something on a legal pad and held it toward the screen.
Ask where he saw photo.
“Where did Reed show you?”
“A bar near Midway.”
“When?”
“Eight days ago.”
“Did you touch the photo?”
“No.”
“Physical or phone?”
“Printed.”
That mattered.
Someone wanted Tyler to see it deliberately.
This was intimidation.
Maybe manipulation.
Possibly both.
Dana muted Natalie’s microphone.
“We need you at the arena.”
“I want to find Reed.”
“No.”
“He photographed me.”
“Which is exactly why you don’t chase him.”
Natalie hated when Dana was right.
Dana continued.
“The goal now is keeping you safe and preserving the competition.”
“My skates—”
“Are being fitted.”
“My family—”
“Made choices.”
The words stung.
Dana’s expression softened a fraction.
“You cannot save Tyler by becoming Tyler.”
Natalie looked down at her father’s stopwatch.
“Fine.”
She unmuted.
“Tyler, stay home. Don’t contact Reed. Don’t erase anything.”
“He’ll come looking for me.”
“Then you call the police.”
Tyler laughed bitterly.
“And tell them I committed identity fraud and sold athlete information?”
“Yes.”
“That easy for you?”
“No.”
Natalie’s voice remained steady.
“But consequences aren’t the same thing as abandonment.”
Her mother came back onto the phone.
“Natalie, please.”
“No more fixing this privately.”
“You could ruin his life.”
“He almost ruined mine.”
“He made a mistake.”
“He made dozens.”
Mom whispered, “So have I.”
That stopped Natalie.
There was something in her voice Natalie had never heard before.
Shame.
“What does that mean?”
Her mother hesitated.
“Nothing.”
“Mom.”
“I have to go.”
The call ended.
Dana stared at the dark screen.
“She knows something.”
Natalie already knew.
The question was what.
Twenty minutes later, Natalie entered the arena through the credentialed athletes’ entrance.
Marisol was waiting beside the equipment room.
At sixty-one, her coach had spent three decades teaching skaters that panic wasted oxygen.
She took one look at Natalie.
“How bad?”
“Family or equipment?”
“Yes.”
Despite everything, Natalie laughed.
Marisol hugged her.
Then she opened a black equipment case.
Inside were Natalie’s backup boots, newly mounted with blades.
Natalie touched one.
“They’re wrong.”
“They’re unfamiliar.”
“That’s coach language for wrong.”
“Correct.”
Marisol handed her a thin pair of socks.
“You have six hours to hate them before official practice.”
Natalie sat and began lacing.
The first step onto the ice felt like borrowing someone else’s feet.
Too high through the heel.
Too loose around the right arch.
The blade rocker was slightly different.
Her first triple loop became a double.
Her second landed crooked.
She cursed.
Marisol folded her arms.
“Again.”
Natalie pushed.
Again.
Again.
By the eighth attempt, she landed cleanly.
Not beautifully.
Cleanly.
Then Marisol noticed something beside the boards.
A man in arena maintenance clothes had stopped near Section 112.
He appeared to be watching Natalie.
Dana’s security liaison approached him.
The man immediately walked away.
Natalie skated toward Marisol.
“Was that—”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“Because right now every middle-aged man in a coat is going to become your father.”
Natalie looked at the empty hallway where he disappeared.
“He wasn’t wearing a coat.”
“No.”
Marisol’s eyes narrowed.
“But he was holding something.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
Ten minutes later, the object was found on the bench where the man had been standing.
A small envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Natalie at the west entrance eight days earlier.
Exactly as Tyler described.
Marisol stood beside her.
Behind Natalie in the picture was a tall man wearing the camel coat.
His face was turned away.
Natalie flipped the photograph over.
Three words were handwritten on the back.
ASK YOUR MOTHER.
She called home immediately.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Tyler finally picked up.
“She’s gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“Her car’s here. Purse too.”
Natalie’s heartbeat changed.
“Tyler, look in her bedroom.”
“I already did.”
“Anything missing?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“The blue box from Dad.”
Natalie knew it instantly.
A navy velvet keepsake box their mother had not opened in years.
“What was inside?”
“His wedding ring. Some medals. Old photographs.”
Natalie remembered one more thing.
“The storage ticket.”
Tyler went quiet.
Their father had rented a storage unit for his contracting business.
After his death, Mom claimed she closed it.
But Natalie remembered seeing a yellow ticket inside that box.
Tyler said, “Why would she take that?”
Dana was already tracing the old business records.
Then Tyler sucked in a breath.
“What?”
“I found something.”
Paper rustled.
“Tyler?”
“It was under Mom’s pillow.”
“What?”
“A note.”
“Read it.”
His voice changed as he did.
“Nat... it’s Dad’s handwriting.”
Natalie gripped the boards.
“That’s impossible.”
May you like
Tyler read the single sentence aloud.
Evelyn, if Natalie ever reaches nationals, you have to tell her what I did.
