“Your father died a year ago, Finnley, and this house isn’t yours anymore,” Reagan said without even looking at me. “So don’t make a scene and just get out.”
I had just been released from Oakwood Prison after serving three years for a robbery I did not commit. My hands trembled around the straps of an old backpack, and the clothes on my body had been borrowed from someone else. At last, I was standing outside the house where I had grown up.
For 1,095 nights, I had imagined my father answering that door. In every version, he was sitting in his worn leather chair, looking at me and saying, “Hang in there, son. The truth always finds a way out.” I had needed to believe Camden Dennis was still alive.
But the moment I entered the Silver Lake neighborhood, nothing felt familiar.
The house had been repainted an expensive shade of gray, and my father’s beloved rose bushes had been ripped out. A large white luxury SUV and a polished red car occupied the driveway. Even the entrance had changed. The old door was gone, replaced by a glossy black one fitted with a digital lock. The structure was still recognizable, but every trace of warmth had disappeared.
I pounded on the door
Like a son coming home.
Reagan answered in a green dress and pearl earrings. My stepmother examined me as if I were dirt tracked across her new flooring.
“You got out earlier than I expected,” she said flatly.
“Where is my dad?” I asked.
She released a slow sigh.
“He died a year ago, Finnley. Cancer. It was fast and painful. It’s over now.”
The ground seemed to tilt beneath me.
“And nobody told me? Nobody asked the prison to let me see him?”
A small, cruel smile touched Reagan’s mouth.
“Finnley, you went to jail for stealing from your own father’s business. Do you really think he wanted you showing up and ruining his funeral?”
“I didn’t steal anything from him.”
“That’s what you kept saying at the trial, but nobody believed you.”
I tried to see past her into the hallway. Every family photograph had vanished. My mother’s portrait was gone. So was Dad’s old hat. The rooms were filled with costly new furniture and the artificial scent of cheap air freshener.
“Let me in,” I pleaded. “I just want to see his room.”
“His room is gone, Finnley. I remodeled the whole thing.”
At that moment, Carter appeared at the top of the stairs and began walking down.
My stepbrother had spent years buried beneath gambling debts, yet he smiled as though he had waited his entire life for this moment.
“Well, look who it is,” Carter sneered. “The convict came back looking for his money.”
