I started snooping around.

There was one more thing. Way in the back of the safe. A small, brown envelope, with the flap tucked in to keep it closed.

ONE MORE THING BY STEFAN SCHUMACHER 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSSUE 01

My father wasn't there. He was meeting a woman. "I've got what you call a romantic date," he said to me.

"Oh, where is it?" I asked.

"It's down at the bowling alley bar."

If I was who I am today I would've said, ah, the bowling alley bar. That's very romantic. Especially at three o'clock in the afternoon.

But I was only 16 and at 16 you're barely past the level of mental retardation. So I'd thought nothing of it and watched as my dad put on a shirt (he was bare-chested when he told me he was leaving), grabbed his keys, and drove off down the narrow driveway in his old VW Bug with the passenger seat missing.

I didn't live with my dad and didn't spend much time in his house. The only TV he had was a black and white with a rabbit-ears antenna, so I started snooping around.