The letter in my father’s handwriting shook more than my hands did. Until that rainy Thursday, I thought Rebecca’s worst sin was greed, that trying to sell the house I’d grown up in without a shred of legal right was the full extent of her cruelty. But as I sat in his cedar-scented study, storm light flickering over the desk, the words on the page rewrote everything I thought I knew about his last year, his marriage, and the poison that had been seeping into our lives long before he died. By the time I reached the line about the loose brick in the fireplace, the room felt smaller, the air heavier, as if the house itself had been holding its breath, waiting for me to finally see what had been hid… Continues…
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