Clara left Julian.

The memorial foundation came under investigation.

Tax authorities and local investigators became involved.

My father had signed financial documents connected to the foundation.

My mother had controlled the accounts.

Their carefully constructed reputation began collapsing almost immediately.

Two days after the gala, I returned to New Jersey.

This time, I did not go alone.

I brought workers from Green Mountain Botanicals.

I had come for my things.

And for one final piece of unfinished business.

The Dunaway house looked completely different.

Newspapers lay uncollected.

The curtains were closed.

A news van waited at the end of the street.

Inside, my mother sat in the drawing room wearing an old robe.

My father sat at the table surrounded by legal paperwork.

Eleanor looked up when I entered.

“Anastasia…”

Her voice sounded broken.

“You’ve destroyed us.”

I stared at her.

She continued.

“We may lose the house. Julian’s marriage is over. Everyone thinks we’re monsters.”

“You told people your living daughter was dead.”

She flinched.

My father barely looked up.

“What do you want?”

“My belongings.”

Then I put on my work gloves.

“And I’m removing something that should never have existed.”

We walked toward my old bedroom.

My mother followed.

“No! You can’t touch anything!”

I opened the door.

The room looked exactly as I remembered it.

The lights I had switched on four years earlier were long gone, but the shrine remained.

The photograph.

The memorial display.

The black granite plaque.

I lifted the photograph of the dogwood tree and handed it to one of my workers.

Then I stared at the stone.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF
ANASTASIA DUNAWAY
1995–2014

My mother appeared behind me.

“Please.”

I ignored her.

“Hank.”