He graduated third in his class, scored high enough on the SATs to catch the attention of the Milfield University engineering department. They offered him a full scholarship, tuition, housing, books, everything. The letter came on a Tuesday. Diane cried for 20 minutes in the bathroom so he wouldn't see. He'd been enrolled for exactly 3 months when everything fell apart.
There was one thing Trayvon never stopped asking about. One question Diane could never fully answer. Where's dad? The first time he asked, he was six. Diane was braiding his hair before school.
Your daddy works far away, baby. He sends money every month. He loves you, but he can't be here right now. He asked again at 10:00. Same answer.
Again at 13. Same words, slightly tired. By 16, he stopped asking. Not because he stopped wondering, because he saw what the question did to her face. The way her hands would pause.
The way she'd look at the chain around her neck, the little silver tea before changing the subject. What Traven didn't know, that chain was bought with money Nathaniel Wells sent in his third wire transfer 2 months after leaving for Washington. Nathaniel Wells, 48 years old, 6'5, dark skin, square jaw, brown black eyes, the same face Trven saw in the mirror every morning. They'd never stood side by side, but if they had, no one would need a DNA test. 18 Years ago, Nathaniel and Diane were 22 and in love.
She was finishing nursing school. He'd just been accepted into the federal prosecutor training program in Washington, DC, one of 12 candidates selected nationwide. It started in 3 weeks. There was no deferral, no remote option, no compromise. Diane told him to go.
He didn't want to. He argued for two days, offered to decline. "Find something local, figure it out." Diane shut it down. "You take that spot," she said. "You go to Washington and you become something.
Because if you stay here for us, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what you gave up. And one day you'll look at me and see the reason." She made one rule. Traven would not grow up in the shadow of a powerful father. No special treatment, no connections, no one whispering, "That's the prosecutor's kid." in the hallway. She wanted him to earn everything himself to build his own name.
Nathaniel agreed on one condition. If he's ever in real danger, he said, "If something happens that you can't handle alone, you call me. No matter how many years have passed, you call." Diane nodded. That was 18 years ago. The money came every month, same amount, same account, no name attached.
Diane used it for rent, groceries, school supplies. She never told Trayvon where it came from. When he asked about the deposit on their bank statement, she said it was from a government assistance program. In Washington, Nathaniel Climbed, federal prosecutor, senior counsel, deputy attorney general, and then four years ago, appointed attorney general of the state of Illinois. The highest law enforcement officer in the state.
His face was on the news, in the papers, on the government website, but always behind podiums in suits surrounded by staffers. Trayvon didn't watch the news. Diane never brought it up. For 18 years, Nathaniel kept his phone on at all times. The number Diane had, the one he gave her the day he left, never changed.
He never switched carriers, never got a new number, never let it go to voicemail. He was waiting for a call he hoped would never come. It happened on a Friday night in October at 9:47 p. M. Trayvon swiped his student ID at the Milfield University library entrance.