CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SECRETS

After my shift, I picked up the car Christopher had dropped off at the hospital. As we arrived home, the other kids scattered off to do their own thing, while Luke, Kenny, and I made our way to the kitchen.

"Right, we're making brownies and muffins," I said, casting a glance at Luke. "Can you grab the bowls, spoons, and set them by the whisk while I get the ingredients?"

Luke grinned. "Okay!" he replied eagerly, and he and Kenny rushed to the cupboard.

I started gathering the ingredients, but just as I reached for the flour, I heard a sudden whoosh. Before I could even react, a cloud of flour hit me square in the face. I burst out laughing.

"Oh, you're on!" I declared, grinning at Luke.

And just like that, a full-blown flour fight erupted between the boys and me. We were throwing flour at each other, the kitchen quickly becoming a snowy battlefield, when I heard the front door open. We all froze, turning around to find Christopher standing in the doorway, a massive grin spreading across his face as he took in the scene—us covered in flour.

"Having fun, I see?" he asked, amusement lacing his voice.

"Right, no more throwing flour," I said, trying to stifle my laughter. "Unless it's at your father. We still need to get these in the oven."

We all burst out laughing, our flour-covered chaos momentarily forgotten as Christopher shook his head, still smiling.

Once the baking was done, the boys went upstairs for a shower while I started making dinner.

"You look ridiculous," Christopher said, laughing.

"What, I don't look sexy anymore?" I quipped, flicking a small amount of flour at him.

After dinner, the kids went to bed, and I stood alone in the kitchen for a while, lost in thought, until Christopher walked in.

"I've got something to tell you," I said, my voice tinged with guilt.

"What's wrong?" Christopher asked, concern crossing his face.

"I told you about my mum, but I didn't tell you the truth about my dad," I confessed, my gaze falling to the floor.

Christopher sat down at the counter, his expression a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

"I only found out who he was when I was eighteen. But the only person who knew was Connor. My biological dad is Hank Voight," I said, watching Christopher's mouth fall open in shock.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," I added quickly, the weight of my secret pressing down on me. "But with Firehouse 51's history with him... I was scared."

Christopher stood and walked over to me, placing his hand on my arm.

"Hey," he said gently, making me meet his eyes. "We all have secrets. But I'm glad you told me."

A small smile tugged at my lips. I wasn't sure if it was relief or something else.

"Does he have any idea?" Christopher asked, his voice soft.

"Yeah, he came by the hospital while I was there. But I told him I didn't want anything to do with him," I replied, my voice wavering for a moment before I steadied myself. I looked away briefly, then back at Christopher, who had a strange look on his face.

"What?" I asked, my lips curling into a half-smile.

"He's still your father," Christopher said, his gaze thoughtful. "He's mellowed over the last few years. Maybe you should talk to him. Give him another chance. You deserve to have at least one parent in your life."

I looked down, unsure if I was ready to take that step.

"Mel," Christopher said, his voice soft and coaxing. "Speak to him. Give him a chance to tell his side of the story."

He gave me those puppy-dog eyes I couldn't resist.

"Alright," I sighed, but the smile on my face betrayed the reluctant acceptance. "But just a chance, okay?"

"Good," Christopher said, his grin widening as he wrapped his arms around my waist. He kissed my neck, then snuggled his head into it.

"Okay," I said, laughing, "let's watch a movie."

I grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge, and Christopher picked out some snacks. We settled on the couch, ready to unwind.

"What are you thinking?" I asked, as I poured us both a glass of wine.

Christopher just gave me a look, and I raised an eyebrow. "Alright, horror it is," I said, putting on a film and leaning into him, snuggling up against his side.

Since I didn't have work the next day, I had Christopher drop me off at the 21st District before his shift at 51.

"Are you all right?" Christopher asked, his voice tinged with concern.

"Nervous, I guess," I replied, forcing a nervous smile.

"It's going to be fine," he reassured me, a confident grin spreading across his face. "You can handle Hank Voight."

His smile made me laugh, and I felt a small bit of the tension lift. "Ok then," I said, grabbing my bag from under my feet. "See you after your shift."

I kissed him on the lips quickly before getting out of the car. Christopher waved as he drove away, and I stood watching him disappear down the street for a moment.

Once the car was out of sight, I turned and headed into the 21st District.

As I stepped inside, officers brushed past me in all directions, moving with purpose. The atmosphere felt different—tense and heavy, but I couldn't focus on that now. I walked up to the desk, scanning the room. After a moment, a female police sergeant approached me, her eyes scrutinising me as she asked, "Can I help you?"

"I'm Melissa Jordan," I said, glancing at her name badge. "I'm here to see Hank Voight."

She raised an eyebrow, her face giving nothing away. "Regarding?"

I swallowed, anxiety bubbling in my chest. "I'm his daughter," I added, my voice just a little too shaky.

The sergeant stopped for a beat, her expression unreadable as she looked me up and down. "Really?" she asked, her surprise apparent. "I didn't know he had a daughter."

Her glasses were perched higher on her nose, and her gaze remained fixed on me, slightly frowning as though she didn't quite believe me.

The sergeant's sceptical expression lingered, and I felt my stomach tighten. The silence stretched on for a moment, the weight of her scrutiny heavier than I had expected.

"Yeah," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "I know it's a bit of a surprise. It was only recently that I found out myself."

The sergeant's eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn't respond immediately. Instead, she gave a curt nod, almost as if processing the information. Her posture remained rigid, and I could tell she wasn't entirely convinced.

"Alright," she said finally, her voice measured. "I'll let him know you're here. But I can't promise he'll be in a hurry to see you."

I nodded, my nerves making it hard to keep still. "I understand," I replied quietly, my hands gripping the strap of my bag tightly.

"You can go up," Platt said, her voice firm but not unkind. I nodded, offering her a quick smile before I turned and ascended the stairs. The metal groaned underfoot as I climbed, and once I reached the top, I made my way through a heavy gate, the sound of it creaking as I pushed it open.

There was another set of stairs ahead, and I took them two at a time, my mind racing. At the top, I reached a small platform that overlooked the bullpen. As I stepped through the doorway, a few officers  glanced up from their desks, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

One older man, his hair peppered with grey, squinted at me. "Can we help you?" he asked, his tone wary but polite.

"I'm here to see Hank Voight. Sergeant Platt let me up," I replied, meeting his gaze without hesitation. My voice was steady, though the sharpness of the question lingered in the air.

End Of Chapter 13