Chapter 1: The Door That Shut Me Out
"He was going to tell you everything before he d!ed...
until she stepped in." 😨
The solid oak front door of my childhood home slammed shut with a thunderous thud, the vibration rattling the iron frame right into my chest.
I stood on the welcome mat—a mat my father had bought years ago—staring at the gleaming dark wood that now barred me from my own life.
Behind that door stood my stepmother, dressed in a tailored black dress and a victorious smirk that made my bl0od run cold, alongside her son, who had already moved into my old room.
"Your father d!ed a year ago," she had said, her voice even, void of any grief.
"This house is mine now.
Leave."
"You didn't even tell me he was d¥ing?" I had yelled, the betrayal cutting deeper than the three years I’d spent behind bars for a crjme I never committed.
"You were in prison for st3aling from him," she replied without blinking, turning her head toward her son, who stepped into the foyer with a cruel laugh.
"Look who came for his inheritance."
"I didn't st3al a d@mn thing!" I raged, taking a step forward.
She immediately raised a manicured finger, her eyes narrowing into slits.
"Take one more step and I call the police.
This house was your father's."
"It *was* my father's house," I spat.
"Was," she whispered with a sharp, wicked smile.
"Get used to that word."
Desperate for answers, I trudged two miles down the dusty county road to the military cemetery where my father was supposed to be resting.
The gravel crunched under my boots as I neared an aging man leaning on a shovel near a row of white headstones.
His hands were calloused, his eyes filled with a heavy, quiet wisdom.
"Camden Dennis...
where is he buried?" I asked, my voice cracking under the weight of my exhaustion.
The old man stopped digging, wiped his brow, and looked up.
"You're Finland."
I froze.
"How do you know my name?"
Without a word, he reached into his worn canvas jacket and pulled out a thick, yellowed envelope, handing it directly to me.
"Your father told me to give you this if you ever came looking..."
I grabbed the envelope, my hands shaking as I unsealed it.
Inside fell a heavy, antique bronze key with a metal tag stamped with the words: *STORAGE UNIT 108*.
"Show me his grave," I pleaded, looking around the endless field of tombstones.
The caretaker looked out over the silent cemetery, shook his head slowly, and whispered, "There is no grave here."
"What?" Shock hit me like a physical blow.
The old man stepped closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
"Don't go back to Reagan.
Not yet."
My fingers fumbled as I pulled out the folded note tucked behind the key.
Unfolding the crisp paper, my eyes scanned the desperate, shaky handwriting of my father's final words: *IF YOU'RE READING THIS, SHE LIED...* 💔
May you like
What did Reagan do—and what will Finland find in Unit 108?
Comment “TRUTH” for Part 2.
