I drove back to the lake with the letter on the passenger seat, my hands shaking harder the closer the GPS crept toward Diane’s road. The last time I’d seen this shoreline, I was thirteen and barefoot, watching my father’s taillights disappear while he promised to “come back when you’re worth it.” Now, a skeletal pavilion jutted over the water, wrapped in fairy lights fed by an orange extension cord running illegally from Diane’s cabin—her cabin, on her deed, bought with my grandparents’ money. Megan’s notes and the bank records were clear: three trust checks endorsed by Ray after I’d already been sleeping on Diane’s thrift‑store couch. He’d told the town I was violent, unstable, a runaway. Staring at his half‑built dream, I realized this wasn’t nostalgia; it was an active crime scene, and I was both witness and unfi… Continues…
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