Chapter 3: The Name on My Confession
A hand covered mine before I could press PLAY again.
I spun around and found the cemetery caretaker standing behind me.
“Turn off the light,” he whispered.
“Now.”
“Why did you follow me?”
“Because Reagan’s son followed you first.”
I pulled the chain, plunging the unit into darkness.
Headlights swept beneath the metal door, and footsteps stopped outside.
The caretaker guided me behind a stack of broken chairs.
“My name is Elias Ward.
Your father trusted me.”
A key scraped against the lock.
Reagan’s son stepped inside and switched on his phone light.
“I know you’re here, Finland.”
My fingers tightened around the recorder.
He kicked the cardboard box, scattering my case papers across the floor.
Then he called someone.
“She opened it,” he said.
“Yes, Mother.
The recorder is here.”
Reagan’s voice came through clearly.
“Then take everything.
If she resists, call Detective Cole.”
My stomach twisted.
Detective Warren Cole had been the officer who questioned me three years earlier.
Elias leaned close.
“Give me the recorder.”
“No.”
“Trust me, or lose it.”
I placed it in his hand.
Elias slipped it beneath his jacket just before Reagan’s son dragged the box toward the door.
“You can come out now,” he called.
“I’m taking what belongs to my family.”
I stepped into the light.
“That file has my name on it.”
“So did the confession.”
“Who signed it?”
His smile vanished.
“Ask your father.”
“You said he was gone.”
“I said nothing.” He backed toward the door.
“Mother is the one who told you that.”
He pulled the box outside and slammed the door.
The lock clicked, trapping Elias and me inside.
“Did he just lock us in?” I asked.
Elias took a small wrench from his pocket.
“He also forgot I repaired these doors for twelve years.”
He removed the inner plate while I switched on my phone.
No signal appeared, but the recorder was still safe.
“Play it,” I said.
“Not until we’re out.”
“Elias, I spent three years behind bars because of that confession.”
He stopped turning the wrench.
“And Camden spent those three years trying to prove he had been deceived.”
The door groaned upward six inches.
Elias slid the recorder toward me.
I pressed PLAY.
My father’s voice returned, thin and unsteady.
“The person who signed your confession was me.
Reagan told me you had taken the money.
She said signing your name was the only way to keep you from receiving ten years.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
“I believed her, Finland.
Then I found the transfers.
Reagan and her son took everything and placed your name on the account.”
I dropped to my knees.
“No,” I whispered.
“Dad knew my handwriting.
He knew me.”
Elias crouched beside me.
“Keep listening.”
The recording crackled.
“When I confronted Reagan, she brought Detective Cole to the house.
They took my phone, my accounts, and my legal papers.
If she has told you I d!ed, go to Briarwood Care Center.
Ask for Calvin Drake.”
I looked at Elias.
“Who is Calvin Drake?”
May you like
His wrench slipped from his hand.
“That,” he said, “is the name Reagan gave your father after she made the world believe Camden Dennis was gone.”
