At my father’s graveside, the gravedigger gripped my arm and whispered, “Sir, your father paid me to bury an empty coffin.” Before I could even speak, he pushed a copper key into my hand. “Don’t go home,” he warned. “No matter who calls, no matter what they say. Go to Unit 17 on Route 9. Right now.” Then my phone buzzed. A text from my mother appeared on the screen. Come home alone. My father had been buried less than five minutes earlier. Or so I believed
