planted, and they were growing with terrifying speed.
Finally, driven by a desperate need for the truth, I sat at his old mahogany desk and plugged the drive into my laptop. The fan whirred to life, a low hum that sounded like a warning in the quiet house.
A single folder appeared on the screen, titled simply with the date of my parents’ death. My breath hitched as I double-clicked. Inside were scanned police reports, grainy surveillance footage, and a series of recorded phone calls that had never been part
