PART 1

“Your father died a year ago, Finnley, and this house isn’t yours anymore,” Reagan said without even looking at me. “So don’t make a scene and just get out.”

I had just walked out of Oakwood Prison after three long years for a robbery I never committed. My hands were shaking as I held an old backpack, wearing cheap clothes someone lent me. I was finally standing in front of the house where I grew up.

For 1,095 nights, I pictured my dad opening this door. I always saw him sitting in his old leather chair, looking at me and saying, “Hang in there, son. The truth always finds a way out.” I really needed to believe that Camden Dennis was still alive.

But when I got to the Silver Lake neighborhood, nothing felt like home anymore.

The front of the house was painted a fancy gray color, and my dad’s favorite rose bushes were completely gone. A big white luxury SUV and a shiny red car sat in the driveway. Even the front door was different: it was black, glossy, and had a modern digital lock. The house looked the same from the outside, but it felt totally soulless.

I knocked hard on the door. I didn’t knock like a guest. I knocked like a son.

Reagan opened the door wearing a green dress with pearl earrings. My stepmother looked at me like I was a nasty stain on her new carpet.

“You got out earlier than I expected,” she said flatly.

“Where is my dad?” I asked.

She let out a long sigh.

“He died a year ago, Finnley. Cancer. It was fast and painful. It’s over now.”

I felt like the ground was moving under my feet.

“And nobody told me? Nobody asked the prison to let me see him?”

Reagan gave a tiny, cruel smile.

“Finnley, you went to jail for stealing from your own father’s business. Do you really think he wanted you showing up and ruining his funeral?”

“I didn’t steal anything from him.”

“That’s what you kept saying at the trial, but nobody believed you.”

I tried to look past her into the hallway. All our old family photos were gone. My mom’s picture wasn’t there, and my dad’s old hat was missing too. The house just had expensive new furniture and smelled like 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.”

Right then, her son Carter came walking down the stairs. My stepbrother, the guy who spent years drowning in gambling debts, smiled like he had been waiting for this day forever.

“Well, look who it is,” Carter sneered. “The convict came back looking for his money.”

I tried to take a step forward, but Reagan immediately blocked the door.

“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 shut in my face with a sharp click.

I didn’t yell or scream. I just turned around and walked all the way to Pinecrest Cemetery. My dad always told me he wanted to be buried right next to my mom, so I needed to go see his name on the headstone.

An old gardener stopped me near some big trees.

“Who are you looking for, young man?” he asked.

“Camden Dennis,” I replied. “His wife told me he’s buried here.”

The old man looked at me with sad eyes.

“You’re Finnley, aren’t you?”

My chest suddenly went cold.

“How do you know my name?”

The gardener looked over his shoulder toward the main gate and lowered his voice.

“Because your dad asked me to give you this if you ever came looking for him.”

He pulled out a yellow envelope from his jacket. Inside, there was a letter and a small key that said: STORAGE UNIT 108.

“But where is my dad buried?” I asked.

The gardener swallowed hard.