Chapter 2 - The Grounds of Betrayal
I walked miles across town to Pinecrest Cemetery, where my father had always said he wanted to rest beside my mother.
The afternoon sun was dipping low, casting long, mournful shadows over the headstones. I needed to see his name engraved in marble. I needed to trace the letters with my fingers to finally accept that he was gone.
I wandered the rows, my eyes scanning the polished stones, until an elderly groundskeeper stopped me beneath a row of cypress trees.
“Who are you looking for, son?”
“Camden Dennis. His wife told me he's bu:ried here.”
The old man looked at me sadly, his weathered hands resting on a wooden rake.
“You're Finnley... aren't you?”
A chill ran through my body. “How do you know my name?”
He glanced toward the cemetery entrance and lowered his voice. “Because your father asked me to give you this if you ever came looking for him.”
He reached into the deep pocket of his overalls and pulled out a yellowed envelope. Inside was a letter and an old brass key.
The key had a small metal tag that read: STORAGE UNIT 108.
“But... where is my father bu:ried?”
The groundskeeper swallowed hard.
“Not here. And if you want to know why, don't go back to that woman just yet.”
My hands trembled as I unfolded the letter. The paper was worn, as if it had been folded and refolded a dozen times.
The very first line read:
“Son, if you're reading this, Reagan has already started lying to you.”
At that moment, I realized my father's de:ath wasn't the end of the story. It was only the beginning of something far more terrifying.
My father wrote the letter in his usual messy, blocky handwriting. Reading it felt like he was talking directly to me from 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 stopped reading for a second because the word “watching” made it hard to breathe.
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.
I felt a massive wave of anger and hurt. My dad had actually believed I did it at first. I wiped a stray tear from my cheek and kept reading.
I eventually found duplicate invoices, weird bank transfers, and papers signed on days when I was totally knocked out from chemotherapy. I found bank accounts in Carter’s name, and I found your work password written down in Reagan’s notebook.
The paper shook in my hands as I read the next part.
I put all the evidence in storage unit 108 in Phoenix. Do not confront Reagan until you go see it first. Do not trust anyone in that house.
The letter ended with: They made you take the blame for something you didn’t do. I love you, son. Dad.
I looked up at Thomas, the groundskeeper. My vision was blurry.
May you like
“He didn't abandon me,” I whispered.
“No, son,” Thomas said softly. “He fought for you until his very last breath.”
