He pulled out a yellowed envelope.
Inside was a letter and an old key.
The key had a small tag that read: STORAGE UNIT 108.
“But — where is my father bur*ed?”
The groundskeeper swallowed hard.
“Son, I’ve worked this ground nineteen years.
I dig them and I mow them and I know every name on this hill.”
He put his hand on my arm.
“Clayton Kemp isn’t on it.”
I unfolded the letter.
The very first line read:
“Son, if you’re reading this, Vonetta has already started lying to you.”
PART 2
The letter was dated four years ago.
Six weeks before my trial.
“Son.
If you’re reading this, Vonetta has already started lying to you, and I’ve been too slow, and I’m sorry.
I want to write the true things down while I can still write.
One.
You did not take that money.
I know because I know where it went, and I know who signs my company’s checks when I’m tired, and I know that I let him because it was easier than a fight.
Two.
I have been forgetting things.
Names.
The shop’s combination.
The word for spatula, for eleven minutes, last Tuesday.
Dr. Ifeoma says early onset and says it will move.
