I tried to see past her into the hallway. Every family photograph had vanished. My mother’s portrait was gone. So was Dad’s old hat. The rooms were filled with costly new furniture and the artificial scent of cheap air freshener.
“Let me in,” I pleaded. “I just want to see his room.”
“His room is gone, Finnley. I remodeled the whole thing.”
At that moment, Carter appeared at the top of the stairs and began walking down.
My stepbrother had spent years buried beneath gambling debts, yet he smiled as though he had waited his entire life for this moment.
“Well, look who it is,” Carter sneered. “The convict came back looking for his money.”
I attempted to move forward, but Reagan immediately blocked the entrance.
“If you ever step foot on this property again, I’m calling the police,” she warned. “With your record, you don’t want to mess around.”
The door slammed in my face, followed by the sharp click of the lock.
I did not shout.
I did not beg.
I turned around and walked all the way to Pinecrest Cemetery.
Dad had always said he wanted to be buried beside my mother. I needed to see his name carved into the stone before I could accept that he was truly gone.
Near a cluster of large trees, an elderly gardener stopped me.
“Who are you looking for, young man?” he asked.
“Camden Dennis,” I replied. “His wife told me he’s buried here.”
The old man studied me with sadness in his eyes.
“You’re Finnley, aren’t you?”
Cold spread through my chest.
“How do you know my name?”
The gardener glanced toward the main gate before lowering his voice.
“Because your dad asked me to give you this if you ever came looking for him.”
He reached inside his jacket and removed a yellow envelope.
It contained a letter and a small key stamped with the words STORAGE UNIT 108.
“But where is my dad buried?” I asked.
The gardener swallowed.
“Not here, son. And if you want to know the real story, don’t go back to that woman yet.” People& Society
I opened the letter immediately.
The first sentence read: Son, if you are reading this, it means Reagan has already started lying to you.
That was when I understood that my father’s death was not the end of the nightmare.
It was the beginning of something far worse.
PART 2
My father’s letter was written in his familiar heavy block handwriting. Reading it felt as if he were speaking to me from somewhere beyond the grave.
Son, I am so sorry I never came to visit you, the letter said. It wasn’t because I thought you were guilty. It was because by the time I finally realized what they did to you, I was already very sick and they were watching my every move.
I paused.
The word “watching” tightened around my lungs.
Reagan didn’t want me talking to you, and Carter kept me isolated, the text continued. For months, they made me believe you stole money from our construction company. They showed me documents, but everything was fake. Crafts
A crushing mixture of anger and pain moved through me.
At first, my father really had believed their story.
I forced myself to continue.
