Chapter 6
After the trial, my dad received a letter.
From Denise's lawyer. She'd left something. A safety deposit box. In her name. But the will—the will she'd written after marrying my dad—said the box went to "her husband, Robert." My dad.
We went to the bank together. The box was small. Metal. Cold. The bank manager opened it.
Inside, there were three things.
A stack of cash. Fifty thousand dollars. Stolen from my dad, probably.
A journal. Denise's journal.
And a letter. Addressed to me.
My dad handed me the letter. "It's for you," he said.
I opened it. My hands were shaking.
Maya, it said.
If you're reading this, I'm in prison. Or dead. Either way, you won. You and your sister and your weak, pathetic father. You took everything from me. My life. My freedom. My future.
But I want you to know the truth. I didn't kill your mother. Not really. She was already dying. The cancer was everywhere. She had weeks. I just… helped her along. She was in pain. She was suffering. I did her a favor.
And your father? He's not the man you think he is. He knew. He knew I was giving her extra medication. He agreed. He said he couldn't watch her suffer. He asked me to do it. He begged me.
You think he's a hero? He's not. He's a coward. He let me take the fall. He let me be the villain. And he's been lying to you this whole time.
Enjoy your perfect life. But remember—your father is just as guilty as I am.
Denise.
I read it. Then I read it again. My hands were shaking.
My dad. He'd asked Denise to do it? He'd known? He'd let my mother die?
I looked at him. He was reading the journal. His face was pale.
"Dad," I said. "Is it true? Did you know? Did you ask her to—"
He looked up. His eyes were wet. "Maya, no. I swear. I didn't know. I would never—your mother—she was the love of my life. I would never hurt her. Denise is lying. She's trying to turn you against me. She's trying to get revenge. Don't believe her."
But the doubt was there. A small seed. Planted. Growing.
I read the journal. Denise's handwriting. Pages and pages. About my mother. About the medication. About how my dad had "agreed." About how he'd "begged her to end it."
It was detailed. Specific. Dates. Times. Conversations.
But it was also… off. The dates didn't match. The details were wrong. She'd gotten my mother's medication wrong. She'd gotten the hospital room number wrong. She'd gotten my dad's work schedule wrong.
Mark—the investigator—looked at it. "It's fake," he said. "She wrote it recently. In prison. The paper is new. The ink is new. She's trying to create reasonable doubt. To get a new trial. To get out. Don't believe it."
The police agreed. The journal was a forgery. Written in prison. An attempt to manipulate. To get a new trial. To get out.
But the seed of doubt had been planted. And for a while, I looked at my dad differently. Wondered. Questioned.
But then I watched him with Ava. Watched him hold her when she had nightmares. Watched him cry at my mother's grave. Watched him talk about her like she was still here, like he still loved her more than anything.
And I knew. Denise was lying. My dad was innocent. He was a good man. A good father. He'd been fooled. Manipulated. Betrayed. Just like us.
May you like
I hugged him. I told him I was sorry for doubting him. He cried. He said he understood. He said he would never stop loving my mother. He said he would never stop missing her.
And we moved forward. Together. As a family.
