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.
A place Linda couldn’t use for sympathy.
A place Linda couldn’t control.
Harold, the groundskeeper, had been the only witness.
My father had known exactly what kind of person Linda was.
He’d simply waited too long to admit it.
Marisol looked at me.
“He was protecting you,” she said softly.
I swallowed hard. “He also left me alone.”
Marisol didn’t argue.
She just said, “Both can be true.
