Reading those words in Owen’s familiar, tilted handwriting sent a cold wave of shock straight through my chest. The noise of the school hallway faded into a muffled hum. Mrs. Dilmore stood beside me, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she watched me with deeply concerned eyes, but I couldn’t look up. My entire world narrowed down to the single sheet of lined paper resting in my trembling hands.
The letter continued, written in quick, earnest strokes that looked as though Owen had penned them in a rush. He wrote that over the past two years, he had noticed things about his father that didn’t make sense. Strange late-night phone calls in whispered tones, hidden documents tucked behind the insulation in our basement, and large amounts of cash stored in a locked metal box in the garage. Owen had tried to convince himself that it was nothing, but a few weeks before the annual lake trip, he had overheard a conversation that terrified him.
