That afternoon they sat across from Jeff, hearts hammering. A sealed envelope waited on the desk.
“Where’s Mr. Bernard?” Frede managed.
Jeff’s voice was gentle. “I’m sorry. Bernard passed away two weeks ago. Peacefully, in his sleep.”
Keaton went white.
“Before he died,” Jeff continued, “he left instructions to find you both and give you this.”
He slid the envelope over. Their names were written in shaky ink.
Frede opened it with shaking fingers.
My dear Frede and Keaton,
If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m sorry I left without goodbye. I was afraid the truth would ruin everything.
I lied to you from the start.
Twenty years ago I was Bernard Langston, CEO of HMR Industries—hundreds of millions, mansion, cars, the works. But no one loved me. They loved what I owned. My own children counted my money while I was still breathing. My wife stayed for the lifestyle. I was drowning in loneliness.
Five years ago I walked away. Bought that trailer with cash, vanished, and for the first time felt free. Still alone—until the day you found me on the road.
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