Chapter 1 - The Echo of a Dying Man
The faded ink on my father’s letter seemed to burn against my palms as the autumn wind rustled the cypress branches overhead. The old groundskeeper, whose name tag read Arthur, watched me with eyes heavy with a lifetime of cemetery secrets.
"Read it, son," Arthur urged softly, his voice trembling slightly. "Read every word before you decide what to do next."
I looked down at the paper, the steady, familiar script of Camden Dennis anchoring me to reality while my entire world violently spun out of control.
Son, if you're reading this, Reagan has already started lying to you. I didn't want to leave you behind bars, and I certainly didn't die of a peaceful, fast-moving cancer. My heart failed because it was poisoned—slowly, deliberately, and right under my own roof.
The ground beneath my boots felt like hollow glass. Poisoned. Not cancer. Not a natural end.
Carter and Reagan orchestrated your arrest three years ago. They forged the ledger entries, routed the corporate funds through offshore accounts, and pinned the theft on you so I wouldn't change my will. When I found out six months into your sentence, it was already too late. They had me locked in this house, isolated, and heavily medicated. They told you I didn't want to see you. They told me you didn't care enough to call.
A cold, blinding fury surged through my veins, hot and sharp enough to cauterize three years of undeserved suffering in Oakwood Prison. I clenched my fists so tight my fingernails bit into my palms.
I managed to hide one last asset away from their greedy hands. Use the key in this envelope. Storage Unit 108 at Metro Safe-Deposit across town contains the real corporate files, the original audits, and proof of what they did to your mother’s estate. Trust no one, Finnley. They think you're broken. Show them you're a Dennis.
I folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the inner pocket of my old jacket, right beside the small iron key that read STORAGE UNIT 108.
"Arthur," I said, my voice dangerously low. "Where is my father's body actually buried? If not here, then where?"
Arthur shook his head grimly. "They cremated him within twenty-four hours of his death, Finnley. No service. No notice. Reagan handled it all herself. But the county coroner's office... they had questions. Questions that were quietly buried by a municipal judge named Sterling."
I stared back toward the direction of the Silver Lake neighborhood, where my childhood home had been stripped of its soul and handed over to vipers.
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"Thank you, Arthur," I whispered, turning on my heel. "You just gave me a reason to wake up."
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