The atmosphere was cozy, the wife suddenly stood up, pointed at her father-in-law – a model former policeman – and said: “You are the one who killed someone in 1998. I found the file.” The family thought she had too much to drink, but she presented evidence: an old recording of gunshots and his voice. She just couldn’t believe that all that evidence was just a mistake of hers…
# Thanksgiving Candlelight Secrets
Westport, Connecticut – November 27, 2025
The white Cape Cod house on 8 Long Lots Road glowed with warm yellow light. The red maple tree in the yard had lost all its leaves, leaving its branches bare under a gray sky. Inside, the scents of pumpkin pie, bacon wrapped in turkey, and applewood burning in the fireplace mingled into a Thanksgiving aroma.
The long cherrywood dining table was covered with a white tablecloth, and in the center was a 24-pound turkey, golden brown and crispy-skinned. Ten people sat around the table:
– Patrick Sullivan, 76, a former Hartford police lieutenant whose badge of honor hung in the hallway, whom the neighborhood called “Mr. Pat the Hero.”
– His wife, Ellen, 74, was a former Army nurse. – Only son: Thomas Sullivan, 40, a prominent human rights lawyer in Boston.
– Daughter-in-law: Rebecca Sullivan (née Cohen), 38, a freelance investigative journalist who won the Pulitzer Prize last year.
– Two grandchildren: Ava, 9, and Noah, 6.
– And a few distant relatives from Rhode Island.
The atmosphere was warm and bustling. Patrick was recounting the time he captured the notorious bank robber in 1987, and the whole table was laughing. Thomas poured more Oregon red wine for everyone. Rebecca had been quiet since the beginning of the meal, only occasionally smiling awkwardly.
Then suddenly, she stood up.
The chair fell back, a dry “clack” amid the laughter.
She pointed straight at Patrick, her voice as cold as ice:
“You’re the killer from 1998. I found the file. The 19-year-old girl in the parking lot behind the Rusty Nail bar in Hartford. You shot her.”
The table fell silent.
Thomas was the first to speak, his voice trembling:
“Becca, how much did you drink? My dad was the one who investigated that case. The killer was never caught.”
Rebecca didn’t look at her husband. Her eyes were fixed on Patrick.
She pulled a small black USB drive from her sweater pocket and placed it on the table.
“This is a copy of the tape from the pocket recorder he always carried with him at the time—as per Hartford Police Department regulations. The tape was sealed with the ‘no suspects’ case file. I got it last week from a source in the archives office. Play it, everyone will hear it clearly: the gunshot, then his voice saying, ‘Fuck… no, no, no…’ and the crying.”
Ellen clutched her chest, her face pale. Ava began to cry. Noah clung to her.
Patrick sat still, his hands on the table, not shaking, not avoiding. Only his eyes – a dull blue – suddenly sparkled as if he were about to cry.
Thomas laughed awkwardly:
“Becca, you’re wrong. Dad can’t…”
Rebecca plugged the USB into the small Bluetooth speaker on the table.
She pressed play.
The dining room echoed with old static, the sound of wind, the sound of cars driving away. Then a dry “BANG”. Then a man’s voice panicked:
“Damn… no, no, no… Oh my God…”
That voice was unmistakable – Patrick Sullivan’s.
Ellen let out a choked scream and collapsed into a chair. Thomas stood up, his face drained of color.
Rebecca continued, her voice almost whispering:
“The police annual report shows you were at the scene at 11:14 PM on October 17, 1998. Victim was Sarah Donovan, 19, a community college student. A single shot to the chest. No witnesses. Case closed for ‘lack of evidence.’ But you know, don’t you, Pat?”
Patrick stood up slowly.
He unbuttoned his jacket, put his hands on the table, looked straight at Rebecca, then at Thomas – his son.
“That’s right,” he said, his voice hoarse but certain. “I killed that girl.”
Thomas stepped back, as if someone had punched him in the chest.
“No… Dad… it can’t be…”
Patrick continued, his words etched into the air:
“I went to the Rusty Nail that night because I got a tip that there was a drug deal. I was in plain clothes. I saw the girl – Sarah – arguing with a man in a car. I went up to her. She panicked, pulled out a gun. I struggled. The gun went off. I… I shot her.”
Rebecca laughed dryly: “And you covered it up for 27 years. A hero cop.”
Patrick nodded slowly.
“Yes. I covered it up.”
Then he turned to Thomas – who was shaking, sweating profusely.
“Son… I’m sorry.”
Thomas shook his head vigorously.
“No… no… don’t say anymore…”
But Patrick was already kneeling, right in the middle of the dining room, in front of everyone.
“I didn’t shoot that gun, Tom. You did.”
The air in the room seemed to have been sucked out.
Rebecca gasped. Thomas fell back into his chair, his face as white as a corpse.
Patrick continued, his voice choking:
“In 1998, I was 13. My mother had died of cancer six months earlier. I was severely depressed and had dropped out of school. That night, I stole my dad’s Glock 19 from the locker – I knew the combination. I rode my bike to Rusty Nail because a friend told me I could buy marijuana there. I met Sarah – she was also trying to buy drugs to forget the pain of losing her mother. We were both desperate.
I pulled out my gun to show her off. Sarah was scared and grabbed it. We struggled. The gun went off.
Dad arrived shortly after – he was patrolling nearby. He saw me standing there, holding a hot gun, next to a dead girl. I could only say one word
sentence: ‘I didn’t mean to…'”
Tears rolled down Patrick’s wrinkled cheeks.
“Dad hugged me, wiped the fingerprints, took the gun back, turned on the recorder to pretend he had just arrived at the scene. Dad said the girl was armed and he accidentally shot her while restraining her. The police believed him – because he was Patrick Sullivan, who had never been wrong. The case was shelved. No one suspected a lieutenant with 20 years of experience.
Dad took the blame for me for 27 years. So I could grow up, study law, get married, have kids… so I could have a life.”
Thomas burst into tears like a child, covering his face. Rebecca stood frozen, still clutching the USB – what she thought was justice, turned out to be a knife stabbing her own family.
Patrick stood up, slowly walked over to hug his son.
“Now everything is clear. If necessary, I will turn myself in. I’m old. And I… I still have a future.”
Thomas hugged his father tightly, crying until he could not breathe:
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I let you take the blame for me all these years…”
Rebecca knelt down beside her husband, tears rolling down her face.
“I… I don’t know… I thought I was doing the right thing…”
Patrick smiled sadly, patting his daughter-in-law’s head.
“I just wanted to protect this family. Just like Dad.”
Ellen, who had been sitting silently until now, spoke up, her voice weak but clear:
“We’re still sitting here together tonight. That’s something to be thankful for.”
The turkey was cold in the middle of the table.
No one touched their chopsticks anymore.
But they still sat there – hugging each other, crying, and for the first time in 27 years, carrying a secret that no longer had to be hidden.
Outside, it began to snow.
The white flakes covered the old scars of an entire family.
