Chapter 7 - THE GHOST IN THE GARDEN
Morning came with a gray,
unforgiving light.
The neighborhood was quiet,
but the air felt charged.
People were staring as they walked their dogs.
They had seen the police.
They knew the ghost was back.
I went out to the yard.
The birdbath was still there,
cracked and dry.
I knelt beside it.
I reached under the stone rim,
feeling for the small metal box Dad used to keep his emergency cash in.
It was still there.
Hidden behind a loose stone.
I pulled it out.
It wasn't cash.
It was a flash drive.
And a letter.
To my Maren,
the letter began,
the handwriting shaky and thin.
I’m sorry I wasn't strong enough to save you.
I found what Derek did.
The drive has the keylogs from the store computer.
I saw him typing in your password.
I saw Brooke’s name on the transfers.
I’m going to the police tomorrow.
If I don't make it,
look in the maple tree.
I looked at the maple tree.
The one he had planted for me.
There was a small knot in the wood,
about five feet up.
I reached inside.
I pulled out a small,
leather-bound book.
Dad’s personal journal.
The one he kept for his thoughts,
not his business.
I opened to the last page.
Carol knows.
She’s helping him hide the evidence.
She told me if I told the police,
she’d leave me.
I’m so alone, Maren.
I miss you every second.
The paper was stained with tears.
His tears.
My father hadn't died of a stroke.
He had died of a broken heart,
crushed by the people he had tried to love.
I sat on the grass,
clutching the book to my chest.
The rubbing alcohol Brooke had sprayed on me was gone,
but the memory of the sting remained.
I looked at the house.
My mother was watching me from the window.
She looked like a ghost herself.
I stood up.
I had the keylogs.
I had the journal.
I had the confession.
The "Recipes" folder on my phone was just the beginning.
I walked back into the house.
“Pack your bags, Carol,” I said.
“Where am I going?”
“To stay with your sister in Jersey.”
“I’m selling the house.”
“You can’t sell it!” she cried.
“Dad left it to both of us.”
“No,” I said.
I pulled a document from the leather book.
A codicil to the will.
Signed and notarized three days before his stroke.
In the event of my death,
if Maren is incarcerated,
the house is to be held in trust.
Upon her release,
she becomes the sole owner.
My wife and son are to be evicted if they have not already made restitution.
Dad had known.
He had planned for my return.
May you like
He had given me the one thing they couldn't steal.
A home.
