I hung up.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel guilty.
THE SECOND LETTER
Months into the investigation, Marisol called me and said, “There’s something else.”
She slid another document across her desk.
A copy of my father’s final arrangements.
Not the ones Linda told everyone about.
The real ones.
My father had requested a private burial under a tree in a small plot owned by an old family friend outside of town—no public listing, no obituary details, no formal grave marker with his name.
Just a quiet place.
