After three years in prison, I returned home hoping for nothing more than to hug my father, but my stepmother opened the door and said, “He d!ed a year ago. This house is mine now.”

along with a small key labeled:

STORAGE UNIT 108.

My hands trembled as I opened the letter.

The very first line read:

Son, if you’re reading this, it means Grace has already started lying to you.

And in that instant, I realized my father’s death wasn’t the end of my nightmare.

It was only the doorway to something much worse.

The handwriting was unmistakably my father’s—large, heavy letters, as though every word had been hammered onto the page.

Son, forgive me for not coming to see you, the letter said.