“Your father died a year ago, Finnley, and this house isn’t yours anymore,” Reagan said without even looking at me. “So don’t make a scene and just get out.”
I had just walked out of Oakwood Prison after three long years for a robbery I never committed. My hands were shaking as I held an old backpack, wearing cheap clothes someone lent me. I was finally standing in front of the house where I grew up.
For 1,095 nights, I pictured my dad opening this door. I always saw him sitting in his old leather chair, looking at me and saying, “Hang in there, son. The truth always finds a way out.” I really needed to believe that Camden Dennis was still alive.
But when I got to the Silver Lake neighborhood, nothing felt like home anymore.
The front of the house was painted a fancy gray color, and my dad’s favorite rose bushes were completely gone. A big white luxury SUV and a shiny red car sat in the driveway. Even the front door was different: it was black, glossy, and had a modern digital lock. The house looked the same from the outside, but it felt totally soulless.
I knocked hard on the door. I didn’t knock like a guest. I knocked like a son.
Reagan opened the door wearing a green dress with pearl earrings. My stepmother looked at me like I was a nasty stain on her new carpet.
“You got out earlier than I expected,” she said flatly.
“Where is my dad?” I asked.
She let out a long sigh.
“He died a year ago, Finnley. Cancer. It was fast and painful. It’s over now.”
I felt like the ground was moving under my feet.
“And nobody told me? Nobody asked the prison to let me see him?”
Reagan gave a tiny, cruel smile.
