Your father died a year ago, Finnley. This house isn’t yours anymore.”
Reagan didn’t even bother looking at me when she said it.
“So don’t make a scene. Just leave.”
I stood there frozen, unable to process her words.
I had just walked out of Oakwood Prison after spending three years behind bars for a crime I never committed. All I carried was an old backpack, a few cheap clothes someone had given me, and one hope that kept me alive through those endless nights:
That my father would still be waiting for me.
For 1,095 days, I imagined this exact moment.
I pictured myself knocking on that door, my dad opening it, pulling me into a hug, and saying the words he always believed:
“Stay strong, son. The truth always finds its way home.”
I needed to believe Camden Dennis was still there.
But when I arrived at the Silver Lake neighborhood, something felt wrong.
The house looked familiar, but it didn’t feel like home anymore.
The walls had been painted a cold gray. The rose bushes my father spent years caring for had disappeared. A luxury white SUV and a bright red sports car sat in the driveway. Even the front door had been replaced with a shiny black modern door with a digital lock.
It was the same house.
But my father’s home was gone.
I knocked.
Not like a stranger.
Not like a visitor.
I knocked like a son coming back.
A few seconds later, the door opened.
Reagan stood there wearing an expensive green dress and pearl earrings. She looked at me the way someone looks at something they wish they could throw away.
“You got out sooner than I expected,” she said.
My heart tightened.
“Where’s Dad?”
She sighed as if my question was an inconvenience.
“He died a year ago, Finnley.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“What?”
“Cancer. It happened quickly. He suffered, but it’s over.”
I stared at her, waiting for her to say she was joking.
She didn’t.
“And nobody told me?” I asked quietly. “Nobody contacted the prison? Nobody tried to get me permission to see him?”
A small smile appeared on her face.
“Finnley, you went to prison for stealing from your own father’s company. Did you really think he wanted you at his funeral?”
My jaw tightened.
“I didn’t steal anything.”
“You said that during the trial too,” she replied. “Nobody believed you then.”
I looked past her into the house.
The family pictures were gone.
My mother’s photo had disappeared.
My father’s old cowboy hat, the one he wore every weekend, was nowhere to be seen.
Everything that reminded me of him had been erased.
The house was filled with expensive furniture, but it felt empty.
“Please,” I said. “Just let me see his room.”
Reagan’s expression didn’t change.
“His room doesn’t exist anymore. I renovated everything.”
Before I could answer, footsteps came from the staircase.
Carter appeared.
My stepbrother.
The same man who had spent years drowning in gambling debts and blaming everyone else for his problems.
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