And if my father was still alive somewhere—or had been hiding before his death—then someone had spent years making sure I never learned the truth.
I looked at the road leading out of the cemetery.
Then I looked at the key.
Storage Unit 108 was only fifteen minutes away.
I had spent three years behind bars.
I wasn’t going to spend another minute running from the truth.
I closed my fist around the key and whispered:
“Dad, I’m coming.”
But as I turned toward my car, my phone suddenly rang.
It was a number I didn’t recognize.
I answered.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then a man’s voice whispered:
“Josiah… if you just found your father’s letter, you need to leave town tonight.”
I froze.
“Who is this?”
The caller took a shaky breath.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Your father isn’t dead.”
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