I’d driven home that weekend praying the connection was a hideous coincidence. The locked shed told me it was a plan.

Paramedics flooded the yard and lifted Franklin onto a gurney. Before the ambulance doors closed, his frail hand caught my wrist with startling strength.

“The Midnight Ledger,” he whispered, his eyes wide. “Under the loose stone in the chapel room.”

My mother heard it. Her eyes snapped to Wyatt in panic — and that one terrified glance told me everything. The evidence still existed.

State detectives arrived and split the three of them into separate corners of the yard. Stripped of their united front, my family turned on one another within minutes.

“It was all Wyatt’s idea!” my mother shrieked, jabbing a manicured finger at her son. “He brought the paperwork!”