The sealed envelope settled into my palm, and the sight of Dad’s handwriting across the front made my stomach tighten thief.
Grant tools.
Just my name, written by Raymond Mercer himself before doctors took him into emergency surgery.
I stood in that hospital corridor staring at it, afraid of what might be inside and even more afraid of why my father had made one thing so clear before he was sedated: Natalie was not supposed to see it.
Three days earlier, none of this had made sense.
Dad had been standing in the middle of my kitchen asking me for $1,000.
That alone was enough to tell me something was wrong.
My father was the kind of man who would spend an hour repairing something most people would replace before he would admit he needed help.
