There were rows of white boxes and folders labeled “BANK STATEMENTS,” “FORGERY,” “CARTER,” and “REAGAN.” On a small table in the corner sat a black USB drive with a note: Watch this first.

I pulled out the cheap phone the prison gave me when I walked out. The screen was cracked, but the video file played fine.

My dad appeared on the screen. He looked incredibly thin, his skin was yellow, his eyes sunken. He was sitting in his old workshop with his tools and a photo of my mom behind him.

“Finnley,” he said, his voice shaking. “If you’re watching this, it means you’re free. Forgive me for not being there to give you a hug.”

I covered my mouth so I wouldn’t cry out loud.

“You didn’t take a single dime,” my dad said on the video. “Carter was the one robbing the company. He used fake suppliers to move money into hidden accounts.