PART 1

“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 been released from Oakwood Prison after serving three years for a robbery I did not commit. My hands trembled around the straps of an old backpack, and the clothes on my body had been borrowed from someone else. At last, I was standing outside the house where I had grown up.

For 1,095 nights, I had imagined my father answering that door. In every version, he was sitting in his worn leather chair, looking at me and saying, “Hang in there, son. The truth always finds a way out.” I had needed to believe Camden Dennis was still alive.

But the moment I entered the Silver Lake neighborhood, nothing felt familiar.

The house had been repainted an expensive shade of gray, and my father’s beloved rose bushes had been ripped out. A large white luxury SUV and a polished red car occupied the driveway. Even the entrance had changed. The old door was gone, replaced by a glossy black one fitted with a digital lock. The structure was still recognizable, but every trace of warmth had disappeared.