The key opened unit 108 without resistance.
When I raised the metal door, dust rolled into my face.
There was no furniture or discarded household junk inside.
The space looked like an evidence room.
White boxes and files were arranged in rows, each marked with labels such as BANK STATEMENTS, FORGERY, CARTER, and REAGAN.
On a small table in the corner sat a black USB drive beneath a note that read: Watch this first.
I pulled out the inexpensive phone I had been given upon release. The screen was cracked, but the video opened.
My father appeared.
He was frighteningly thin. His skin had turned yellow, and his eyes were hollow. He sat inside his old workshop with his tools around him and a photograph of my mother positioned behind his shoulder.
“Finnley,” he said, his voice shaking. “If you’re watching this, it means you’re free. Forgive me for not being there to give you a hug.”
I covered my mouth to keep from sobbing aloud.
“You didn’t take a single dime,” my dad said on the video. “Carter was the one robbing the company. He used fake suppliers to move money to hidden accounts. When the audit started, Reagan gave him your passwords and put the fake files on your computer. Carter got into your apartment with a spare key. I found it in his bag.”
Everything I believed shifted beneath me.
“They also forged my signature to take out cash and change my will while I was completely drugged up on meds,” my dad continued, struggling to breathe. “There are medical reports, emails, and receipts here. I didn’t go to the cops because I didn’t know who to trust. Reagan said she was protecting me, but she was just keeping me prisoner.”
He paused to catch his breath.
“And there is one more thing, Finnley. If she told you I’m buried next to your mother, she’s lying. Don’t let her decide where my story ends.”
Then the screen went dark.
I remained inside the unit for hours, opening boxes and examining every document.
There were transfers involving millions of dollars, messages between Carter and a corrupt accountant, and photographs proving someone had used my computer while I was away at construction sites.
Eventually, I discovered a red folder labeled THE CONFESSION.
Inside was a signed statement from Carter admitting that he had used my login credentials to steal the money.
Beneath his signature, Dad had written: They took your freedom, Finnley. Don’t let them keep the truth.
At the bottom of the folder lay a copy of the funeral home records.
When I saw the address, my breathing stopped.
Reagan and Carter had not only framed me for theft.
They had hidden my father’s body.
The address made one thing perfectly clear.
Reagan had shown him no mercy, even after his death.
