The weight that had pressed down on me since I was eight years old was gone.

The truth was out.

The neighborhood knew.

The police knew.

My mother’s guilt and my father’s greed were no longer secrets.

I walked toward the glass sliding doors of the patio.

My sneakers squeaked on the tile.

The kitchen was clean, the counters wiped down by the catering staff.

A single envelope sat on the island.

It was addressed to my father from a local real estate agency.

I picked it up.

Inside was a brochure for a luxury condo in another state.

He had been planning to leave.

He was going to take the money and run, leaving us to deal with the ruins.

I tossed the brochure into the trash can.

I walked down the hallway to my bedroom.

It was the smallest room in the house, facing the back fence.

My suitcase was already under my bed.

I pulled it out.

It was a cheap, blue canvas bag I had bought with my own money from my part-time library job.

I opened the closet.