Then we buried him.
And the silence he left behind didn’t last long.
My cousin Marla showed up.
She hadn’t visited in years, but suddenly she was everywhere—opening drawers, scanning rooms, talking about “what we should do with the property.”
“We should sell this place, Nolan,” she said coldly. “You can’t handle it alone.”
But I knew why she was really there.
She wasn’t grieving. She was calculating.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Something about the house felt unfinished. Under an old toolbox in the shed, I found an envelope.
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