Her former mother-in-law looked well-fed and smug. Her hair was freshly colored, and gold rings glinted on her fingers. Behind her, Andy hovered in the doorway, avoiding Kate’s eyes and shifting his weight nervously.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Tamara said, her voice dripping with contempt. “We were starting to think you’d never get out. A real shame.”
Kate stopped at the gate. Her hands were trembling, but she kept her voice steady. “Hello, Tamara. Where’s Dad?”
“He passed away. A year ago,” the older woman replied, a hint of satisfaction in her tone. “Massive stroke. He was calling for you at the end, you know. But why would he want a criminal at his bedside? You disgraced this family, stole from sick children. And you still have the nerve to show your face here.”
The words hit Kate harder than a physical blow. She gripped the gate to keep from falling. Her father was gone. The one person in the world who believed in her was dead, and he had died waiting for her.
“The house is ours now,” Tamara continued. “Frank left it to Andy in his will, for taking care of him in his final years. Now get off this property, you thief. You’re not welcome here.”
The front door slammed with a force that rattled the windows. Kate saw Andy’s silhouette for a second before he disappeared from view. Neighbors watched from behind their fences, whispering, but no one came forward.
Kate stood in front of the house that was no longer hers. A hollow ringing filled her ears. Her father was dead, her home was gone, and her money was running out. She was an outcast in a world that saw her as a monster. Her feet, acting on their own, carried her toward the cemetery. Maybe there, at her father’s grave, she would figure out what to do next. Or maybe she would just lie down beside him, too tired to fight anymore.
The town cemetery was on a gentle hill just outside of town. Kate walked among the headstones, reading the names of people she’d known her whole life. She was looking for a new plot of earth, one that would bear the name Frank Peterson—a history teacher, an honest man, a father who had trusted his daughter.
“You won’t find his grave here,” a voice said from behind her.
Kate turned. An old man was approaching, his back bent with age. It was Walter, the cemetery groundskeeper. He had been one of her father’s students years ago. Now, Walter himself was old, but his eyes were still kind.
“What do you mean?” Kate asked, confused. “Tamara said he died a year ago.”
“He did,” Walter nodded. “But he wasn’t buried here. Frank came to see me before he passed. He gave me something for you. Said, ‘If my daughter ever comes back, you make sure she gets this.’ I’ve been waiting for you for a year.”
Walter led her to the small groundskeeper’s shed near the entrance. It smelled of damp earth and old tools. He rummaged through a dusty footlocker and pulled out a bundle wrapped in an old dish towel.
“Here,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Your father was living on potatoes the last few months, saving every penny for something. He got so thin. But he kept saying, ‘I’ll prove my girl is innocent, even if it’s the last thing I do.’ He was a good man. They don’t make them like him anymore.”
Kate took the bundle with trembling hands. She recognized the towel; it was her mother’s, with its embroidered bluebells. She unwrapped it carefully, as if afraid the contents might turn to dust. Inside was a collection of documents: a notarized will leaving everything to her, a folder of bank statements, photos of strangers, and witness statements written in a shaky hand. And a letter—several pages covered in her father’s familiar script.
“What is all this?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” Walter said. “I didn’t read it. Not my place. He just told me, ‘This will prove she’s innocent.’ He also said he made copies and put them somewhere else, just in case. He thought of everything.”
Kate opened the letter. The first few words made her heart pound.
“My dearest Kate. If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. But I did it. I found the people who framed you.”
Kate read her father’s letter for the third time, each word a fresh cut. The charity’s director, Linda, was Tamara’s cousin. Together, they had stolen the quarter-million dollars and set Kate up to take the fall. And Andy, her own husband, had known everything, taking a cut of the money to buy a condo in the city and open his own auto repair shop.
The folder contained the bank statements her father had obtained through a friend who was a computer expert. The money had indeed been transferred from the charity to the account Kate had been instructed to use. But two days later, it was moved again, to an account opened under a false name. Her father had tracked down the man—a homeless person who’d been paid with a bottle of whiskey to sign the paperwork.
The final lines of the letter sent a chill down her spine.
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