"If you're reading this, my death was not an accident."
That's what my brother's email said. An email that arrived ten days after his car went off a bridge and into the Marrow River — and just hours after we held his memorial service.
Danny was the family con man. I was the one who caught liars for a living. We hadn't spoken in over a year when he died. My first instinct was to just ignore it. Why believe him now?
But then the emails kept coming — sent with some kind of automatic scheduling service, each one peeling back another layer of a life my brother hid from all of us. Dirty money. Dirtier cops. And a secret worth killing for that's now mine, whether I want it or not.
Danny left me instructions. He left me warnings. And he left me one question I can't my brother conned everyone he ever met.