My stepmother sl:ammed the door in my face after telling me, “Your father was bu:ried without you.” I didn’t scream, I didn’t beg; I walked straight to the cemetery with my prison clothes still in my backpack. But there I discovered there was no grave… only a secret letter that could destroy it.

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.”