Ten years ago, we buried my father after a supposed boating accident. Today, I saw him alive—in a white Elvis jumpsuit, leading a biker gang of Elvis impersonators into Grandview Plaza.
Shocked, I followed them to an abandoned textile factory. They weren’t hobbyists—they were soldiers. My father, Leo, explained everything. He hadn’t died. He faked his death to protect us after being framed for embezzlement by his business partner, Richard Abernathy—the town’s beloved philanthropist.