this weekend praying the connection was
a horrific coincidence. The locked shed proved it was a calculated conspiracy.
Paramedics flooded the backyard, rushing Franklin onto a gurney and into a waiting trauma ambulance. Before the doors slammed shut, his frail hand gripped my wrist with surprising strength.
“The Midnight Ledger,” he whispered, his eyes wide with urgency. “Under the loose stone floor in the chapel room.”
My mother heard the whisper. Her eyes instantly flashed toward Wyatt in sheer panic.
That single, terrified glance told me everything I needed to know: the evidence still existed.
State detectives arrived, immediately separating the three of them into separate corners of the yard. Deprived of their unified front, my family instantly began to devour one another.
“It was entirely Wyatt’s idea!” my mother shrieked to a detective, pointing a manicured finger at her son. “He brought the paperwork!”
My brother roared across the
