He threw my suitcase onto the porch like trash.
“Go to your sister’s,” he snapped. “You’re not coming back.”
I didn’t argue. I picked it up and walked into the night. I slept in my car, stomach tight, mind blank. At 6 a.m., one thing hit me like a slap—my father’s Bible.
Years ago, before he died, he’d taped an old bank card inside it. Four shaky words were written beside the card:
DON’T TELL ANYONE.
When the bank opened, I went straight there.
I slid the card across the counter. “I need to check this account.
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