At my grandma’s funeral, my dad opened the casket and put his fingers inside grandma’s mouth.

“What are you doing?” everyone shouted at once, including me. Dad was leaning into Grandma’s casket, his fingers literally in her mouth like he was searching for something. The funeral director rushed forward while Mom screamed his name.

“I just need to find it now,” Dad’s voice was desperate, manic. “Before it’s too late.”

Uncle Tony and my cousins grabbed him, trying to pull him away from the casket. Dad fought them, still reaching for Grandma’s face. “Please, you don’t understand. There’s thousands in there.”

Nobody listened. Four men were now wrestling him back. In the struggle, Dad’s elbow hit the casket’s edge. The whole thing tipped. Grandma’s body rolled out onto the funeral home carpet. Flowers scattered. Someone’s aunt fainted. Mom was sobbing and hitting Dad’s chest. “You ruined everything! Your own mother’s funeral!”

But I saw it. Something small and gold had rolled from Grandma’s mouth when she hit the floor. While everyone screamed at Dad, while the funeral director called security, I watched that glinting object slide under the side table where they kept the guest book.

Security arrived. They dragged Dad out, still babbling about money, about inheritance, about running out of time. Mom followed, apologizing to everyone. The funeral was basically over.

I knelt by the table and reached under. My fingers found it. A gold tooth—heavy, but there was a seam running down the middle. I glanced around. Everyone was either leaving or helping the funeral director with Grandma. I twisted the tooth. It opened like a locket. Inside, a tiny rolled-up paper. I unrolled it carefully. Just numbers—coordinates.

In the bathroom, I plugged them into my phone. The pin dropped on Macky’s Bar on the south side. I knew that place. Dad used to go there before he got sober. It closed five years ago after the owner died in a fire.

I told Mom I needed air and drove twenty minutes to the old bar. The windows were boarded up, graffiti covering the plywood. The door was chained shut, but on one board, someone had carved “Alan Donnagy” in deep letters. My dad’s name. Below it, an arrow pointed left.

I followed the building around. More arrows were carved into boards, into the brick itself, leading me to the back alley. There, hidden behind a dumpster, was a suitcase. My hands shook as I opened it. Inside, wrapped in plastic, was a revolver and a note.

*The inheritance is yours. All you have to do is take it. One job, one trigger, one million. The target’s photo is under the gun.*

I lifted the gun and saw the photo. It was my father.

“I’m sorry, son.”

I spun around. Dad stood at the alley entrance, pointing his own gun at me. Not angry, just sad.

“This was meant for your mom and me,” he said. “She was supposed to outlive me. I took a contract on my life. One million dollars to make sure you and your sister were set for life.”

“You hired someone to kill you?”

“Life insurance won’t pay for suicide. Your mom was dying anyway. Cancer. She had maybe weeks left. We figured one quick trigger pull, she collects the money, and dies naturally soon after. You kids inherit everything clean.”

“That’s insane.”

“But she died first. Three days ago. The contract was already paid for. Non-refundable. Someone’s going to collect that million. Son, they gave me forty-eight hours to find her tooth, get the coordinates, and assign a new shooter,” Dad continued. “Time’s almost up. If nobody claims it, they send their own guy. A professional. He might take you and your sister out too, just to be clean.”

“So, you want me to…?”

“I want you to live. Take the money. Take care of your sister. Tell your mother I had gambling debts. That I was dirty. Let her hate me. It’s easier than the truth.”

“I can’t kill you, Dad.”

“Then we both die. Maybe your mom and Sarah, too.” He lowered his gun. “I’m already dead, son. Have been since the diagnosis. Lung cancer. Stage four. I’ve got maybe a month anyway. This way, it means something.”

The weight of the gun. The photo of my father’s face. The million dollars that would save us or damn us.

“Grandma knew. It was her idea. She loved you kids more than anything,” his voice broke. “Ten seconds, son. Choose. Save the family or lose everything.”

I raised the gun. Dad smiled, tears running down his face. “Tell your mother I loved her. Tell Sarah I’m proud of her. Tell yourself this was mercy.”

I stood there, frozen, the gun still aimed at his chest. My finger rested against the trigger but refused to move. The metal felt heavy and wrong in my hand, like it weighed a thousand pounds. Dad just watched me with those sad eyes, not begging or yelling, just… waiting. He already knew I couldn’t do it. I could see it in his face, a strange sense of relief.

My hand started shaking so badly I had to lower the gun. I backed away, one step at a time. He just nodded once—a small movement that said everything. He didn’t follow.

I shoved the gold tooth and the photo deep into my pocket and walked out of that alley, forcing myself not to run. In my car, my hands trembled as I deleted my map history. I hid the gun in the spare tire well, my brain screaming words at me: *evidence, accessory, conspiracy*.

My phone rang. It was Mom, her voice destroyed from crying, asking where Dad went. I lied. I told her we fought and he left. The words tasted like metal in my mouth. I promised I’d be home soon.

Back home, I hid the tooth in an old sock behind the dryer. Sleep wouldn’t come. Every car that passed outside made my heart jump. Around 2 a.m., a text from an unknown number: *Clock’s running.*

I went to my dad’s empty room. On the dresser sat his sobriety chip for eighteen months clean. The sight of it made me so angry I had to leave before I threw something. I started a text to my sister, Sarah, telling her to come home, then deleted it. She was safe at college, three hours away. I needed her to stay that way.

The next morning, Mom’s eyes were nearly swollen shut. I told her we should postpone Grandma’s burial. She agreed, her voice a whisper on the phone with the funeral director.

Then, the unknown number called again. A woman’s voice, calm and professional. “We need an answer.”

“We’re mourning,” I pleaded. “We need time.”

“We are too,” she said, her voice still impossibly calm. “End of day two.” She hung up.

The deadline was real. Twenty-four hours.

I spent hours online, searching for “Macky’s Bar Fire.” The owner, Dennis Fletcher, had died in a suspected arson. Comments under the news article hinted at organized crime. It didn’t help. I thought about calling the police, but I’d be arrested before I could finish explaining. I submitted an anonymous tip to Crimestoppers about the suitcase, a desperate, useless gesture.

An hour later, Dad called, coughing so hard I could barely understand him. He said he could “fix this,” that I should just walk away. His voice was weak, each cough sounding like it was tearing something inside his chest.

Then, another text. An address for a strip mall. *Bring the tooth tonight at 8:00 p.m.*

I drove to the strip mall and watched from my car. Two men in dark jackets stood outside a closed pizza place. At 7:55, the woman from the phone arrived. She looked more like a real estate agent than a killer, which somehow made her even scarier. I texted an excuse about family being everywhere, then drove away, my heart pounding. A new message arrived before I even got home: *Tomorrow, noon, or we choose.*

That was a threat. They’d pick the target themselves. Me, Mom, or Sarah.

I spent the night researching criminal defense lawyers and witness protection. The more I read, the worse it seemed. Conspiracy to commit murder. Prison time measured in years.

In the garage, I hid the gun in a toolbox on the highest shelf. Mom found me there, asking if Dad had relapsed. The real answer was so much worse.

The next morning, I found a lawyer, Fletcher Crawford. I told him everything. He laid out the grim reality of my situation—conspiracy, weapons violations, hiding evidence. Then he gave me his brother’s number. Victor, a detective.

Driving home, I thought a gray sedan was following me. Paranoia or reality? I didn’t know anymore. I texted Sarah: *Stay on campus. Don’t come home. Love you.* She replied with a storm of confused questions I couldn’t answer.

At 11:30, I drove back to the strip mall. I started a voice recording on my phone and walked toward the nail salon. The handler and one of her men were waiting.

“Where’s the tooth?” she asked, her voice flat.

I stalled, asking how it worked. She explained the process with chilling simplicity. They needed proof—photos with timestamps, specific details—then the payment would be released. When I told her Dad had stage four cancer, she just shrugged. “Do you want him dying in a parking lot instead of a hospital bed?”

I asked for twenty-four more hours. She agreed, a smirk on her face. “Have an answer by 9:00 a.m., or we’ll proceed with our own solution.”

I drove straight to Victor’s precinct. I told him everything. We hatched a plan: a recorded handoff in a public place. Dad had to be part of it. He agreed on one condition: that nothing happened to me or Mom legally. He would take all the responsibility.

That night, I moved Mom to a cheap motel under her maiden name. A dark sedan was parked on our street, watching the house. I sent the plate number to Victor. It was a rental.

The next morning, we met Dad in a hardware store parking lot. He looked like a ghost. A tech specialist wired him for sound. Dad called the handler, his voice shaking but steady, offering to trade the tooth for a cancellation.

“There are no cancellations,” she said coldly. “Only substitutions.”

We changed tactics. Dad proposed a meeting at a crowded farmers market. She agreed.

Saturday morning was a blur of maps, code phrases, and undercover officers. I watched from a distance as Dad, looking frail and gray, walked into the market. The handler met him by the flower stand. He handed her the fake tooth. She examined it, a knowing smile on her face. Then her expression changed. She pointed directly at my car.

Two men closed in on Dad. He doubled over, coughing violently. It looked real, too real. Then he yelled the code phrase: “I need to call my doctor!”

The market exploded into chaos. Officers moved in, badges out. One of the men ran, the other surrendered. The handler didn’t even flinch. She just stood there, calm and blank, as they put her in handcuffs. It was just business to her.

At the hospital, they told me Dad’s cancer had progressed. He was dehydrated and weak. The handler had lawyered up immediately. The other man had escaped. It wasn’t a clean victory.

The next few weeks were a painful haze. I surrendered the gun. Mom finally learned about Dad’s cancer. He was moved to hospice, and Victor took his official statement. The D.A. was building a racketeering case; this was bigger than just us.

Five weeks after Grandma’s funeral, Dad died peacefully in his sleep.

Three months later, I took a plea deal: misdemeanor weapons possession, probation, and counseling. It was the best possible outcome.

We finally had a proper funeral for Grandma. Afterward, Sarah and I scattered some of Dad’s ashes in his favorite park. We promised to check in with each other every week, to not let the family fall apart. For the first time in months, I felt like maybe, just maybe, we were going to be okay.