Ethan laughed.
Then cried.
Then laughed again.
So did I.
Near the bottom of one box, inside an old tax folder, I found an envelope.
Inside were copies of bank statements.
Checks.
Financial records.
The actual proof Ryan had gathered against Derek.
Across the front, in Ryan’s handwriting, was one sentence:
Derek knows I kept copies. Don’t destroy these.
I sat on the storage-unit floor laughing and crying at the same time.
It was so Ryan.
Even while sick, he had understood his brother might not be finished.
Derek had spent weeks manipulating Ethan and planting fake evidence.
Meanwhile, the truth had been sitting only a few feet away.
Quiet.
Waiting.
I gave everything to the police.
Between Ryan’s original evidence, Derek’s forged documents, the camera outside my house, and the evidence that he had manipulated a child into planting false records, the case against him was overwhelming.
