The funeral was a blur of black suits, murmured condolences, and the weight of loss pressing against my chest. My father, the man who had raised me with unwavering love, was gone.

I was standing by his casket, barely holding myself together, when a hand tapped my shoulder.

I turned. It was **Mr. Calloway,** my father’s lawyer. His eyes, sharp and calculating, didn’t hold the same sorrow as the rest of the mourners. He pulled an envelope from his coat and slipped it into my hand.

“From your father,” he whispered.

Confused, I stepped aside and tore it open with trembling fingers.

> **”My sweet girl, if you’re reading this, I’m gone. But I need you to do something.**
> **Watch Lora and her children carefully today. Follow them after the ceremony. Do not let them see you. You need to know the truth.”**

My stomach dropped.

My stepmother, Lora. My father had married her eight years ago, bringing her two teenage kids into our lives. I never truly trusted them, but Dad had insisted they were “family.”

Now, even from the grave, he was warning me.

I slipped the letter into my pocket and turned my attention back to Lora.

She stood beside her kids, whispering among themselves, their grief… strangely absent. Their eyes weren’t red. They weren’t clinging to each other for comfort.

No.

They were waiting. **Impatient.**

When the ceremony ended and guests started leaving, I hung back, pretending to check my phone. I watched as Lora and her kids hurried to their car, speaking in hushed tones.

Then they drove off.

**I followed.**

My hands were clammy against the steering wheel as I tailed them from a safe distance. They weren’t heading home. They weren’t going to a relative’s house.

Instead, they stopped at a **strange, unmarked building** on the outskirts of town. It was old, almost abandoned-looking, with no sign above the door.

My pulse pounded.

I parked across the street, took a deep breath, and stepped out. They disappeared inside, glancing over their shoulders.

Carefully, I followed, my hands trembling as I pushed open the heavy door.

And when I saw what was inside—I **froze.**

A **vault.**

A **vault filled with money.**

Stacks upon stacks of **cash, jewelry, and documents** sat inside an open safe. Lora’s son was stuffing a duffel bag full of hundred-dollar bills while her daughter sifted through envelopes. Lora stood back, watching with a satisfied smirk.

“You think he knew?” her son muttered.

Lora scoffed. “He was suspicious, but he never found the account. We moved it just in time.”

My blood turned to **ice.**

They were **stealing from my father.**

Whatever this money was, it had been **hidden from him.**

And now, **I had proof.**

I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking as I hit record.

My father had suspected something. That’s why he wrote the letter.

He **knew.**

And now… I did too.

This wasn’t just about inheritance. It was about betrayal. And Lora had no idea that her **perfect crime** was about to come crashing down around her.