And I never saw it.
Hours later, they found it.
The wardrobe in our old house.
The one no one ever questioned.
Hidden behind a false panel was everything—documents, a photograph, and a ledger written in my father’s careful handwriting.
Proof.
My father hadn’t died by accident.
He had discovered something.
Money. Fraud. Names that didn’t belong on paper.
And one of those names…
was Ray.
The last entry in the ledger was dated the night my father died.
He had written about Ray coming over. About threats disguised as offers. About fear he couldn’t ignore.
And one line stayed burned into my memory:
“If anything happens to me… it was him.”
Ray didn’t just kill him.
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