I was living in a 5×10 storage unit, eating cold beans from a can when I found the briefcase that changed everything. My name’s Roger Hendris, and 6 months ago, I had it all. A beautiful wife, two kids, a steady job at the lumber mill. Now, I’m staring at $50,000 in cash and coordinates to somewhere in Montana.

The note says, “This is just travel money.” But what I found when I got there made me realize my entire life had been orchestrated by someone I never expected. You want to know how a man goes from having Sunday dinners with his family to sleeping on a cot surrounded by concrete walls? How someone loses their wife to their boss, their kids to lies, their dignity to a world that kicks you harder when you’re already down.

Let me tell you exactly how it happened because the ending of this story isn’t what you think. My wife Melanie always said I was too trusting. Roger, she’d say, stirring her coffee at our kitchen table. You think everyone’s as honest as you are. That’s going to bite you someday. Funny how the person warning you about snakes can be the one hiding the fangs. Vance Cromwell was more than just my boss.

He owned Cromwell Lumber Industries, the biggest employer in Milbrook, Pennsylvania. His father built that empire, and Vance inherited it along with the taste for expensive suits and other men’s wives. I’d worked there 18 years, managed 40 men, kept that place running while Vance played golf and counted money he never earned.

My son Tommy just made varsity football, 14 years old and already taller than me. My daughter Grace, she’s 11 and smarter than both her parents combined. At least I thought she had two parents. Turns out she had one parent and one actress playing a role for money. But here’s the thing about hitting rock bottom. Sometimes you find things that were hidden from you your whole life.

Sometimes a crazy uncle you barely knew leaves you more than money. Sometimes he leaves you the truth about why your father died when you were 5 years old and why certain people made sure you never ask the right questions. That briefcase I found, it was put there by my uncle Floyd before he died.

A Vietnam vet who went strange after my father’s accident at the mill, moved to Montana, lived like a hermit, only visited once a year for Thanksgiving. Everyone thought he was paranoid and crazy. Turns out when you’re right about everything, people call you crazy right up until the moment they realize you were the sest person in the room.

The storage unit still smelled like the previous renters’s cigarettes. February in Pennsylvania, and I’m heating a can of beans on a camping stove I bought at a pawn shop, same place I sold my wedding ring for $40. The ring cost me 2,000. The marriage cost me everything. But as I held that cash in my hands as I read Floyd’s note about my father’s death not being an accident, I realized something important. Melanie sent me a text message saying I die poor and alone.

She was wrong about the poor part, the alone part, too once my kids learned the truth. But the dying part, well, the old Roger did die. the trusting fool who believed in love and loyalty and working hard for an honest living. That man died in a storage unit holding $50,000 and a letter that said everything I knew was a lie.

The coordinates Floyd left pointed to a place in Montana I’d never heard of. A,000 miles from Milbrook, 1,000 mi from the house I used to own, the wife who betrayed me, the boss who destroyed me for sport and profit. a thousand miles to travel with nothing but questions and a growing suspicion that my father’s death, my marriage, my entire life was connected by threads I never saw. My name is Roger Hendris.

I’m 42 years old. 6 months ago, I was nobody special, a supervisor at a lumber mill with sawdust in my hair and an honest day’s work under my belt. Today, I’m going to tell you how I discovered that my uncle spent 40 years gathering evidence of murder. That my wife was planted in my life as part of a con that started before I was even born.

And that the man who took everything from me was the son of the man who killed my father. This isn’t a story about revenge. It’s a story about truth. about how sometimes God or fate or whatever you believe in strips everything away from you so you can finally see what was always hidden underneath.

It’s about a storage unit in Pennsylvania, a cabin in Montana, and $8 million I never knew existed. But most of all, it’s about how the worst day of your life can lead to your salvation. If you’re brave enough to follow a dead man’s map and crazy enough to believe that justice can wait 40 years and still show up when you need it most. Milbrook, Pennsylvania sits 40 mi northeast of Pittsburgh.

The kind of town where everybody knows your business before you do. Population 12,000 on a good day. Built around Cromwell Lumber Industries like a body around a spine. The mill whistle blows at 7:00 a.m., noon, and 5:00 p.m. You could set your watch by it, and most folks did. I’d been hearing that whistle my whole life.

First as a kid when my father worked the floor, then as a teenager when I’d sweep sawdust for summer money. Finally, as a man who ran the entire floor operation. 18 years I’d given to that place. Started loading trucks when I was 24. Worked my way up to supervisor by 35. The sawdust never really comes out of your clothes, but I wore it like cologne. Honest work has its own smell. Melanie used to love that about me when we first met.

“You smell like fresh cut wood,” she’d say, burying her face in my work shirt when I got home. “That was back in high school when she was Melanie Driscoll, captain of the cheerleading squad with honey blonde hair and eyes that could make you forget your own name.

I was just Roger, the kid who worked weekends at the mill and drove a beat up Chevy that needed a new muffler. We got married right after graduation. Her parents thought she was settling, but Melanie said she loved me. Said she wanted the simple life, wanted to build something real with someone who knew what real work meant. We had our wedding reception at the VFW hall.

My uncle Floyd gave a strange toast about watching out for wolves in sheep’s clothing. Everyone laughed nervously and blamed it on his Vietnam days. Now I understand he was trying to warn me even then. Our house on Maple Street wasn’t much, but we made it ours. Three bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen that needed updating since 1982.

The previous owner had painted every room beige, and we spent our first year married repainting everything. Melanie chose yellow for the kitchen, said it would catch the morning sun. She was right. Every morning I’d drink my coffee in that yellow kitchen, watching the light make her hair glow while she packed Tommy’s lunch for school.

Tommy came along 2 years after we married. Born during a snowstorm, fought his way into the world like he was already late for something important. Grace arrived 3 years later, peaceful as a Sunday morning. I remember holding each of them for the first time, thinking I’d never felt anything so perfect. Tommy got my stubborn streak and Melanie’s athletic ability. Grace got Melanie’s beauty and my love of fixing things.

She’d sit in the garage while I worked on the car, handing me tools, asking a million questions about how engines worked. The lumber mill provided good insurance, steady pay, enough for a twoe vacation every summer. We’d drive to Ocean City, rent the same cottage every year.

Tommy would build sand castles while Grace collected shells. Melanie would read romance novels under an umbrella while I taught the kids to body surf. Simple pleasures for simple people, or so I thought. Vance Cromwell inherited the mill when his father died 10 years ago. Old man Cromwell had been tough but fair. Vance was neither.

He showed up maybe twice a week, usually smelling like bourbon and expensive cologne. Let me handle the actual running of things while he took credit for profits he didn’t earn. He had this way of looking at female employees that made my skin crawl. Should have paid attention when he started looking at Melanie that way during company picnics.

My uncle Floyd lived 3 hours north in a cabin he built himself after coming back from Vietnam. My father’s younger brother, but the war aged him into looking like the elder. He’d show up every Thanksgiving with conspiracy theories and warnings about trusting the wrong people. They killed your daddy, Roger,” he’d say after a few beers.

“Made it look like an accident, but I know better.” My mother would shush him, change the subject. After she died when I was 20, Floyd got stranger, more isolated. Last time I saw him alive was Thanksgiving a year ago. He looked sick, thin, knowing. Pulled me aside and handed me a key. “For when you need it most,” he said.

wouldn’t explain more. The warning signs with Melanie started small. New clothes that cost more than we budgeted. Complaints about the house being too small, the vacation being too boring, my salary being too modest. Vance says there’s opportunity for advancement, she’d mentioned casually over dinner. Maybe you should try harder to impress him. I thought she was trying to help.

Now I know she was setting the stage for something that had been planned long before she ever cheered at my high school football games. That Thursday in March started like any other day until my foreman Pete noticed me sweating through my shirt. Boss, you look like death warmed over. He said, “Go home before you infect the whole crew.

” I rarely took sick days, but the room was spinning and my stomach felt like I’d swallowed battery acid. I climbed into my truck at noon, skipping lunch, just wanting to crawl into bed. The drive home took 12 minutes. I remember because I was counting them down, fighting not to pull over and throw up. When I turned on to Maple Street, I saw Vance’s Mercedes parked in my driveway.

That silver S-Class that cost more than I made in 2 years, sitting bold as brass next to Melany’s Honda. My first thought was maybe something happened at the mill. Maybe there had been an accident and Vance came to tell Melanie personally. I parked on the street and walked to my own front door. It was locked, which was strange.

We never locked it during the day in Milbrook. I fumbled for my keys and that’s when I heard it. Melanie’s laugh coming from upstairs, not her polite laugh or her watching TV laugh. The laugh I thought was just for me. I stood in my own hallway listening to my wife and my boss in my bedroom. The smart thing would have been to leave, to think it through, to get a lawyer first.

But smart went out the window. I climbed those stairs I’d climbed 10,000 times, past the school photos of Tommy and Grace, past our wedding picture on the wall. The bedroom door was half open. Vance was sitting on my side of the bed, putting on his shoes. Melanie was in a silk robe I’d never seen before.

They were talking about Paris, about some restaurant with a view of the Eiffel Tower, casual as could be, like they weren’t destroying a family in the bed where my children were conceived. “Hello, Vance,” I said from the doorway. “You should have seen his face.” For once, Vance Cromwell had nothing clever to say. He just grabbed his jacket and pushed past me. “We’ll discuss this at work tomorrow,” he muttered like I was an employee who’d interrupted a meeting.

“Melanie didn’t even try to explain. She sat at her vanity, the one I’d bought her for our 10th anniversary, and started brushing her hair.” “How long?” I asked. “Does it matter?” She kept brushing, long, steady strokes like we were discussing the weather. Our kids sleep in this house, Melanie. My kids.

She turned then, and her face was cold as January. Your kids? You think Tommy wants to be like you? Working himself to death for nothing. Grace is already smarter than you’ll ever be. They deserve better than this. She waved her hand around our bedroom like it was a prison cell. Better like Vance.

Vance is taking me to Europe next month. He’s buying me a condo downtown. He’s showing me what life can really be instead of this. She stood up, tightening the silk robe. Look at yourself, Roger. You’re 42 years old and you’ve peaked. Supervisor at a lumberm mill.

Is that what you dreamed about as a kid? Is that the legacy you want to leave? I dreamed about having a family, about raising good kids with the woman I loved. She laughed, but there was no joy in it. The woman you loved never existed. I played a part, Roger. I was good at it for a while, but I’m tired of pretending that this is enough. The next morning, I showed up to work like nothing happened. My crew was already at their stations when Vance’s assistant called me to the office.

Vance was behind his father’s old desk, the one made from a single piece of walnut that old man Cromwell had cut himself. We’re making some changes, Vance said, not even looking up from his computer. Budget cuts. Your position is being eliminated effective immediately.

I’ve been here 18 years, and you’ve been adequately compensated for those years. Security will escort you out. Your personal items will be mailed. This is about Melanie. He looked up, then smiled, that smile I wanted to punch off his face. This is about efficiency, Roger. Nothing personal. Sign the separation agreement and you’ll get two weeks pay. Refuse and you get nothing.

I signed. What choice did I have? No job means no lawyer for the divorce that was surely coming. But as security walked me out past men I’d worked alongside for nearly two decades, I saw Pete and the others watching. They knew this wasn’t about budget cuts.

In a town like Milbrook, everyone would know by dinner time. The divorce papers were served the next week. Melanie had hired the best lawyer in three counties. Somehow affording a retainer that should have been impossible on our budget. She wanted the house, the kids, alimony, and child support from a man who just lost his only source of income.

The storage unit became my world after I lost the court battle. Judge Harrison, who’d coincidentally received campaign contributions from Vance Cromwell, decided I was an unstable influence on my children. Melanie’s lawyer painted me as violent and unpredictable, using my one moment of anger when I’d punched the garage wall after being served divorce papers.

Never mind that I’d never laid a hand on anyone in anger before. Never mind 18 years of steady employment and coaching Tommy’s little league team. Living in a storage unit isn’t something you plan for. You start by sleeping in your truck until the cops tell you to move along. Then you couch surf until your friend’s wives get uncomfortable.

Then you find yourself at you store it on Route 30, handing over $89 you borrowed from your brother-in-law for a climate controlled unit. The night security guard, an old-timer named Carl, pretended not to notice when I started staying past closing time.

I’d arranged my few possessions like furniture, the camping cot against one wall, my father’s old tool chest as a table, a batterypowered lantern for light. I kept my clothes in plastic bins, showered at the Planet Fitness down the road for $10 a month. You learn to make hot meals on a camping stove, to wash dishes in a bucket, to live so quiet that no one knows you’re there.

It was my third week in that concrete box when I decided to sort through the boxes Melanie had thrown in during the divorce. Mostly junk she didn’t want, but knew I’d valued. Photo albums, my father’s war medals from Korea, Christmas decorations we’d collected over the years. Each box was a gut punch of memories from a life that felt like someone else’s dream.

The briefcase was wedged behind a box of ornaments covered in dust like it had been there for years. Brown leather combination lock with a luggage tag that stopped me cold. My name was written on it in Uncle Floyd’s shaky handwriting. But Floyd had been dead for 8 months. How did this get here? I tried every combination I could think of.

Birthdays, anniversaries, nothing worked. Finally, I took a screwdriver to the lock, pried it until the metal gave way. The case opened with a pop that echoed in the storage unit like a gunshot. Money. Neat stacks of $100 bills wrapped in banks. I counted it three times, my hands shaking so bad I kept losing track.

$50,000, more cash than I’d ever seen outside a movie. But it was the letter that changed everything. Floyd’s handwriting on yellow legal paper. Roger. If you’re reading this, you’ve lost everything. Good. A man can’t rebuild until the foundation’s clear. This money isn’t charity, and it isn’t pity. It’s travel funds for what you need to do next.

Drive to these coordinates in Montana. Park at the red gate on Timberwolf Road. Walk north one mile until you find the boulder that looks like a bear’s head. Behind it is the truth about why your father died. I know you think I’m crazy. Everyone does. But crazy is just what they call you when you see things others don’t want to see.

Your father didn’t die in an accident at the mill. He was murdered by Cromwell Senior because he wouldn’t sell his share of the mineral rights. Those rights are worth millions now and they belong to you. I’ve spent 40 years gathering proof, building wealth from my own share, waiting for the right moment. But cancer’s got me now, and I won’t live to see justice.

That’s your job. The cabin has everything you need. Documents, recordings, photographs, even some surprises about that wife of yours. Don’t trust anyone, especially family. Your cousin Dwight is in Cromwell’s pocket. has been for years. And Roger, your father, would be proud of the man you’ve become. Even if that man is sleeping in a storage unit right now.

Sometimes the lowest point is just where you need to be to see the stars. Make them pay for what they took from us. Floyd. I read the letter six times before it truly sank in. My father owned mineral rights. He was murdered. And Floyd knew all along, but said nothing for 40 years.

The coordinates pointed to somewhere near Glacier National Park, Montana Wilderness, where Floyd had lived like a hermit since Vietnam. I sat on that cot holding $50,000 while my stomach grumbled from hunger. This money could get me an apartment, a lawyer, maybe shared custody of my kids. It could solve my immediate problems. But Floyd’s words about my father’s death kept echoing.

What truth was waiting in Montana? What surprises about Melanie? The decision wasn’t really a decision at all. The next morning, I bought a used Ford F-150 for 8,000 cash from a dealer who didn’t ask questions. Loaded it with camping gear, supplies, and enough food for a week’s drive. I told no one where I was going.

Who would I tell? My kids weren’t allowed to talk to me. My friends had chosen sides in the divorce, and I wasn’t on the winning team. Before leaving Pennsylvania, I drove past the house on Maple Street one last time. Tommy’s bike was in the driveway. Grace’s bedroom window had new curtains, purple instead of the pink she’d chosen with me.

Melanie’s car was gone, probably Advanc’s downtown condo. This life I’d built was continuing without me, like I’d never existed at all. The drive to Montana took 3 days of hard driving, stopping only for gas and catching a few hours of sleep at rest stops. The coordinates led me deep into Flathead County, where the roads went from paved to gravel to barely more than deer tracks.

Timberwolf Road was marked by a rusty sign shot through with bullet holes. The kind of place where GPS gives up and tells you you’re on your own. The red gate Floyd mentioned was actually more rust than red, with a heavy chain and a lock that opened with the key he’d given me last Thanksgiving. Beyond it, the road disappeared entirely.

I parked the truck and started walking north using the compass app on my phone until even that lost signal. The forest was so thick the sunlight barely reached the ground. Every sound made me jump, wondering if bears or wolves were watching from the shadows.

The boulder, shaped like a bear’s head, sat in a clearing, exactly one mile from the gate, according to my fitful counting of steps. It was massive, maybe 15 ft tall, and from the right angle, it really did look like a grizzly in profile. Behind it, hidden by overgrown brush, was a trail that led another h 100red yards to a cabin that shouldn’t exist. This wasn’t some ramshackle hermit’s hut.

This was a modern structure with solar panels, satellite dish, even a generator humming quietly behind a shed. The door was steel reinforced, opening with another key from Floyd’s ring. Inside looked like a combination of living space and detective’s evidence room. One wall was covered with photographs, documents, and newspaper clippings going back 40 years.

Another held filing cabinets, each drawer meticulously labeled. A desk supported three computer monitors and surveillance equipment that must have cost thousands. The first thing I saw was my father’s picture, young and smiling, standing next to old man Cromwell at the mill. They were holding papers, shaking hands. The caption, Floyd had written, “Partnership agreement, 1976.

Dad and Cromwell as equal partners. The documents told the story piece by piece. My father, Daniel Hrix, hadn’t just worked at the mill. He’d been Cromwell’s partner, having inherited mineral rights from my grandfather that turned out to sit on one of the largest natural gas deposits in Pennsylvania. Cromwell needed those rights to expand. My father had agreed to partnership instead of sale.

Then came the police reports from 1982. Industrial accident at the mill. Daniel Hendris crushed by a lumber loader that mysteriously failed. The investigation was prefuncter. The case closed within a week, but Floyd had found the truth. Maintenance records showing the loader had been serviced the day before. An insurance policy Cromwell had taken out on my father just months earlier.

A witness, now dead, who’d seen Cromwell arguing with my father about selling out completely. But that wasn’t the biggest shock. In a folder marked MD were photographs that made my blood freeze. Melanie at age 16 with Vance Cromwell who would have been 38 then. More pictures through the years.

Always at a distance always careful. Then a document that knocked the wind out of me. A bank account in Melanie’s maiden name opened when she was 17 with the regular deposits from a Cromwell Industries subsidiary. The recording equipment held dozens of files, all dated and labeled. I clicked on one from 3 years ago. Floyd’s voice, old but clear.

Following MD to meeting with VC at Riverside Motel, then Melanie’s voice unmistakable. He’s getting suspicious. How much longer do I have to play housewife? Vance responding until we can provoke him into something we can use in court. We need him discredited, not just divorced. Another recording from just last year. Melanie again.

I’ve been married to him for 16 years. Vance, I’ve had his children. I’ve pretended to love him so long sometimes I forget I’m pretending. Vance, those kids are your insurance policy. He’ll never fight back hard with them in the middle. And once he’s broken, really broken, the mineral rights revert to his next of kin.

As his grieving widow or ex-wife with full custody, you’ll control them until the kids are 18. I sat in that cabin for hours, pieces of my entire life rearranging themselves, like a puzzle I’d been looking at upside down. Melanie hadn’t fallen out of love with me. She’d never loved me at all. She’d been placed in my life like a chess piece, a 17-year-old girl groomed by a man more than twice her age to destroy me decades later. The financial documents were staggering.

The mineral rights my father had refused to sell were now worth approximately $8 million. Floyd had been quietly collecting lease payments on his portion for 40 years, living like a popper while building a fortune. Every cent was documented, every transaction legal and clean. And according to the will I found in the desk, every penny was now mine.

But Floyd had been smarter than just hoarding money. He’d built a legal case that would destroy Cromwell Industries. Environmental violations, tax evasion, bribery of local officials, including Judge Harrison, who’d ruled on my divorce. The evidence was overwhelming, meticulously gathered, waiting like a loaded gun.

The last file on the computer was a video message from Floyd himself, recorded just weeks before he died. He looked skeletal. eaten away by cancer, but his eyes were sharp as ever. Roger, he said to the camera. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, but they were watching. They’ve always been watching.

If you’re seeing this, you’ve lost everything, which means they think they’ve won. They’re not watching anymore. Now you can fight back. The money’s yours, legal and clear. But what you do with the evidence, that’s your choice. You can take the fortune and disappear, or you can finish what your father started. Either way, they lose.

I spent three days in Floyd’s cabin, memorizing every document, copying every file, understanding the full scope of what the Cromwells had done. The choice Floyd talked about wasn’t really a choice at all. Running away with the money would mean letting them win. Letting my father’s murder go unpunished.

Letting my children grow up believing their father was a failure who abandoned them. The drive back to Pennsylvania felt different. I wasn’t running from something anymore. I was driving toward justice with a truck full of evidence and a bank account that finally gave me the power to fight back. My first stop was the FBI field office in Pittsburgh.

Agent Patricia Nolles listened to my story with the kind of stoneface that made me think she’d heard every crazy conspiracy theory imaginable. Then I showed her the documents. Her expression changed. She called in two more agents, then her supervisor. The investigation took 4 months. four months of secret grand juries of forensic accountants digging through 40 years of Cromwell Industries books of federal agents interviewing everyone who’d ever done business with Vance.

I stayed quiet, living in a small apartment in Pittsburgh, following my lawyer’s advice to remain invisible while the machinery of justice slowly ground forward. The arrests happened on a Tuesday morning. Vance Cromwell taken from his country club in handcuffs. Three city councilmen, Judge Harrison, even the police chief who’d closed my father’s accident report so quickly.

The charges ranged from tax evasion to conspiracy to environmental crimes that would cost millions in cleanup. The murder couldn’t be prosecuted because old man Cromwell was long dead, but his son would pay for continuing the cover up. Melanie’s arrest was different. They took her from the elementary school where she was picking up Grace.

She called me from jail, the first time we’d spoken in months. “How could you do this to your children?” she screamed. “They’ll see their mother arrested.” “Their mother was never real,” I told her. “You were a fiction, a character played by a girl Vance groomed when she was 16. The kids deserve to know who their father really is, not the failure you tried to paint me as.

She broke down then, the truth finally cracking her perfect performance. She’d been promised millions to destroy me, to steal my children’s inheritance, to continue a con that started before I was even born. The woman I’d loved, who I thought had loved me, admitted she’d been receiving payments since high school to get close to me, to marry me, to have children with me, all so the Cromwells could eventually steal what my father had died protecting.

The trial made national news. Smalltown lumber dynasty falls in decadesl long conspiracy read the headlines. Vance got 15 years federal time. Melanie got 5 years but would likely serve two. The other conspirators fell like dominoes, each racing to make deals and testify against the others. But the real victory came when I got my kids back.

Tommy and Grace had been living with Melanie’s mother during the trial. The first time I saw them after everything came out, Tommy wouldn’t meet my eyes. Grace ran to me crying, asking if mommy was really a bad person. “Your mother made terrible choices,” I told them. Holding them both in the living room of our new house, a modest place not far from their school. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you. People are complicated.

They can do bad things and still have good in them.” It took time. therapy for all three of us. Tommy’s anger slowly melted into understanding. Grace’s confusion settled into acceptance. We found our rhythm as a different kind of family, one built on truth instead of lies.

I used Floyd’s money to start my own lumber business, Hrix and Sons, even though Tommy swears he’s going to be an engineer, not a mill worker. I hired Pete and the good men from Cromwell Industries, giving them better wages and actual respect. The storage unit where I lived is still mine. I pay the $89 every month and sometimes go there just to remember. Carl, the security guard, who’d pretended not to notice me living there, now works as my night shift supervisor.

You remember where you came from, he told me once. And you’ll never lose sight of where you’re going. Uncle Floyd was right about everything. Sometimes you need to lose it all to find the truth. My father died refusing to give up what was rightfully his, and it took 40 years for justice to come calling.

Floyd lived as a hermit, gathering evidence and wealth, sacrificing his own life to make sure the truth would eventually surface. And me, I went from eating cold beans in a storage unit to owning an $8 million inheritance and a successful business. But the real wealth isn’t in the bank account.

It’s in Tommy’s laugh when I help him with calculus homework he insists he doesn’t need help with. It’s in Grace’s smile when she shows me her science project about sustainable forestry. It’s in knowing that my father would be proud that Floyd’s sacrifice meant something. that sometimes the worst thing that happens to you is actually a gift wrapped in barbed wire. Melanie said I’d die poor and alone.

She was wrong on both counts. But more importantly, she showed me that living a lie surrounded by people is the real loneliness. Truth, even when it destroys everything you thought you knew, is freedom. and freedom I learned in a 510 storage unit eating cold beans is worth more than all the mineral rights in Pennsylvania. My name is Roger Hendris.

I was nobody special, just a lumberm mill supervisor trying to raise his kids right. But sometimes nobody special is exactly who needs to stand up and fight back. Sometimes the ordinary guy is the one who brings down an empire built on lies and murder.