“Your father asked me to help him disappear.”
I stared at him.
“Disappear?”
“He told me that if anyone asked, I was to say nothing. He said he needed time to uncover what had happened inside his company.”
I looked down at the photograph of my father that I had brought with me.
“Then whose grave is here?”
The groundskeeper pointed toward a small section of the cemetery.
“Your father arranged for a burial under another name.”
“Why?”
“Because someone was looking for him.”
My mouth went dry.
Before I could ask another question, the groundskeeper reached into his coat and pulled out a second envelope.
“This was supposed to be given to you only after you opened Storage Unit 108.”
I stared at it.
“What’s inside?”
He shook his head.
“I never opened it.”
I took the envelope.
On the front, my father had written only four words:
DON’T TRUST YOUR BROTHER.
Royce.
My stepbrother.
The man who had smiled at me from the staircase that morning.
The man who had called me an ex-con.
The man who now lived in my father’s house.
I suddenly understood why my father had wanted me to find the key.
This wasn’t about an inheritance.
It wasn’t even about the house.
It was about discovering who had framed me.
