My Son Thought I Didn’t Notice When He Hid An Envelope Under My Truck Dashboard. I Moved It To…

Hard Choices

I wanted to comfort him. Every instinct I had as a father wanted to pull him into a hug and tell him we’d figure it out together. But something stopped me.

Maybe it was the memory of finding that phone, of reading those messages that talked about my truck like it was just another piece of equipment. Maybe it was the thought of little Lily growing up with a father in prison, or worse.

“Thomas, you need to stop today. Right now. Whatever you’re involved in, you walk away.”

“I can’t Dad. These aren’t the kind of people you just walk away from.”

“Then we go to the police. We tell them everything. We cooperate. We get you protection.”

His face changed. The fear vanished, replaced by something cold.

“I’m not going to prison.”

“Son, if you keep doing this, prison is the best case scenario.”

He stood up.

“I need to go.”

“Thomas, wait.”

But he was already out the door. I sat there listening to his car start, listening to him drive away.

And I knew with absolute certainty that my son wasn’t going to stop. He was going to keep using my truck, keep putting me at risk. Keep dragging our family deeper into whatever darkness he’d found.

That night I made a decision. If Thomas wouldn’t protect himself, I’d have to protect him another way. And I’d have to protect myself, protect Lily, protect what was left of our family.

The Stakeout

The next time he asked to borrow my truck, I said yes. It was a Thursday morning.

Thomas showed up at 7:00, said he needed it for a few hours to pick up some building materials. I handed him the keys and watched him drive away.

As soon as he turned the corner, I got in Catherine’s old Corolla and followed him. He didn’t go to any hardware store.

He drove straight to a Tim Hortons parking lot off the QEW, where he sat for 15 minutes before a black Mercedes pulled up beside him.

A man got out, looked around, then got into my truck with Thomas. They talked for maybe 5 minutes. When the man left, he was carrying a large shopping bag.

Thomas drove to two more locations that morning. Same pattern each time: meet someone, talk briefly, exchange bags.

By the time he returned my truck at noon, I’d taken photos of every location, every person, every license plate.

“Thanks Dad,”

he said, handing back the keys.

“Really appreciate it.”

“No problem son.”

That night I didn’t sleep. I sat at my computer looking at the photos, trying to decide what to do. I could go to the police, turn over everything I had.

But Thomas was right about one thing. The people he was involved with wouldn’t take kindly to that. Even if Thomas went into witness protection, what about Vanessa? What about Lily?

I thought about Catherine. What would she do? She was always smarter than me about these things, always knew the right thing to say, the right way to handle difficult situations.

I imagined her sitting across from me at the kitchen table. That look on her face when she was thinking hard about something.

“You have to stop him,”

I could almost hear her say.

“But you have to do it smart.”

The Plan

The plan came to me slowly, piece by piece. It wasn’t perfect. It was risky, but it was the only way I could see to protect Thomas from himself while keeping the rest of us safe.

3 weeks later, Thomas called again.

“Dad, I hate to ask, but can I borrow the truck tomorrow afternoon? Just for a couple hours.”

“Of course. I’ll leave the keys in the visor.”

“You’re the best Dad.”

This time I knew what I was doing. After Thomas picked up the truck but before he started his route, I drove to the Oakville OPP station.

I walked up to the front desk, my hands shaking, and asked to speak with an officer about suspected drug trafficking. They took me seriously.

An officer named Constable Morrison, maybe in her mid-30s with kind eyes that reminded me of Catherine’s, listened to everything I had.

The photos, the messages from the burner phone I’d photographed, the locations, the pattern of behavior. I told her I believed my son was making a run that afternoon, that he was using my truck, and that I needed her help.

“Mr. Peton,”

she said,

“what you’re doing takes a lot of courage.”

“I’m terrified,”

I admitted,

“but I’m more terrified of what happens if I don’t do anything. My granddaughter needs her father, even if that means her father has to go to prison to get help.”

They moved fast. Constable Morrison brought in a detective, a man named Singh who specialized in drug trafficking. Within an hour, they had a plan.

They’d intercept Thomas during his run, search the vehicle, make the arrest. They’d try to get him to cooperate, to give up the people above him in exchange for a reduced sentence.

“We can’t make promises,”

Detective Singh said.

“But if your son cooperates fully, if he provides valuable information, the Crown Attorney will take that into consideration.”

“I understand.”

“There’s one more thing Mr. Peton. We need to be sure there’s actually contraband in the vehicle. If you could, if you were willing to verify…”

That’s when I told them about the envelope I’d found that morning taped under the dashboard. I discovered it at 6:00 a.m. when I went out to check something in the truck.

This time I didn’t remove it. I just took photos and came straight to the police.