A few bills. A side door left unlocked. A warning about when the room would be empty.
They slipped inside shortly before Daniel’s casket was closed for the last time.
And they took his camera.
I shoved my chair back so hard it scraped across the floor.
“No.”
I shoved my chair back.
My hands were shaking.
I had chosen that camera myself.
Daniel had carried it everywhere. Birthday parties. Grocery runs. He photographed puddles, cracked sidewalks, birds on telephone wires—anything that caught his eye.
Putting it beside him had felt right.
Something he loved, going with him.
I could not keep reading.
And Owen had helped steal it from his coffin.
For several seconds, I could not keep reading.
I was furious.
Not sad.
Not understanding.
Furious.
But the letter continued.
I was furious.
We planned to sell the camera immediately.
After you walked away, I stared at that money and realized I was wearing your son’s jacket while helping sell something stolen from his coffin.
