She whispered the question heavy in the steam rising from the sink. I stopped scrubbing. “Who?”
“Grandpa. Don’t play dumb, Scarlet. Dad. Elliot. He sold that company for a fortune ten years ago. A fortune. And now look at this place.” She gestured vaguely at the chipped paint on the cabinets. “He lives like a pauper. It does not make sense unless he is hiding it.”
“Maybe he spent it,” I suggested. “Maybe he donated it. It is his money.”
“Mom,” she scoffed, a harsh sound. “It is family money. If he has it tucked away in some account, it would be incredibly cruel not to share it now, especially when we have been so good to him. We drove all the way up here in a blizzard. For God’s sake, if he is playing favorites, if he is slipping things to people under the table…” She looked pointedly at my pocket, where the velvet box made a small bulge.
“It is a key, Mom,” I said, feeling a sudden defense of anger rise in my throat. “It is probably for the woodshed. You heard Dad. It is a joke.”
“I hope so,” she said, pushing off the counter. “Because if he leaves a mess for us to clean up, I am going to be very upset. Just make sure you get those glasses spotless. I hate water spots.”
She walked out, leaving me alone with the dirty dishes and her envy. I finished the cleaning and dried my hands. I walked into the living room to collect the coffee cups. Uncle Darren was holding court by the fireplace, his face flushed with alcohol and heat.
“I am telling you, Paul,” Darren was saying, shouting to be heard over the crackling fire. “The rumors were everywhere back then, ten years ago. The sale to Global Timber Corp. The street talk was that the deal closed at nearly $100 million.”
“$100 million,” my father grunted. “If the old man had $100 million, would I be paying for his supplemental health insurance? Would we be sitting on this lumpy sofa? Look around you, Darren. There is a draft coming through the window that could freeze a beer. This is not the home of a millionaire. He got swindled. Or he lost it on bad stocks. Dad never had a head for the modern market.”
“Maybe,” Darren conceded, looking around the room with disdain. “But where did it go? Money leaves a trail.”
I stood in the shadows of the hallway holding a stack of saucers, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft. Money leaves a trail. They were right about the sale. I was nineteen when it happened. I remembered Grandpa taking trips to the city, wearing his one good suit. I remembered him coming back, not with new cars or expensive watches, but with a calmness I had never seen before. I remembered the summers I spent here as a child. While my parents were vacationing in Martha’s Vineyard, Grandpa did not take me to theme parks. He took me to his study. He showed me ledgers. He taught me how to read a balance sheet before I knew how to ride a bike without training wheels.
“Scarlet, look at the expense column,” he would say, his finger tracing the lines. “This is where people hide their sins. Revenue is vanity. Profit is sanity. Cash is king.”
Why did he live here? Why did he let them believe he was poor? I looked at him now. He was sitting in his armchair, eyes closed, seemingly asleep amidst the chaos of his family arguing over his hypothetical fortune. But I saw his hand on the armrest. His index finger was tapping a rhythm. He was awake. He was listening to every word.
By 11:00, the wine had done its work. My parents and the others stumbled up the creaky stairs to the guest rooms, complaining about the mattress firmness and the shared bathroom. The house finally fell silent. I stayed downstairs to check the fire. I was placing a screen in front of the embers when I heard the front door open. I turned to see Grandpa standing there wearing his heavy wool coat and boots. He gestured with his head for me to follow.
I grabbed my coat and stepped out onto the porch. The snow had stopped falling, but the wind was biting. The world was a vast, silent expanse of white and blue moonlight. Grandpa handed me a mug of steaming tea. His hands were shaking more noticeably now.
“I apologize for the show tonight,” he said softly. His breath bloomed in the air. “They have become complicated people. They are just stressed.”
“Grandpa,” I said, the automatic excuse falling from my lips.
“Do not lie to me, Scarlet,” he said. He did not look at me; he looked out at the treeline. “And do not lie to yourself. It is a bad habit for an auditor.” He took a sip of his tea and coughed, a deep rattling sound that shook his thin frame. When he recovered, he turned his gaze to me. His eyes were clear, sharp, and incredibly sad. “The key,” he said. “Do you have it?”
I patted my pocket. “Yes.”
“Good. Keep it close. Do not let Bri take a picture of the code. Do not let your father hold it.”
“Grandpa, what is it?” I asked. “Dad said it is for the house. Is it?”
He smiled, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Paul always did lack imagination. No, Scarlet. It is not for the house. It opens a storage unit in Maple Harbor. Unit 47B.”
“A storage unit,” I frowned. “What is in there? Old furniture?”
He looked at me for a long moment. “The truth,” he said. “And the answer to the question Darren was asking tonight.”
My heart skipped a beat. The sale. The money.
“If I am not here tomorrow,” he said, ignoring my question. “Or if I am not here next week, you must promise me something. Do not open that unit immediately. Wait. Wait until you are ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Ready to be hated,” he said simply.
The wind howled through the pines, a lonely, mournful sound. “Grandpa, you are scaring me,” I said. “Why would they hate me?”
“Because,” he said, leaning against the railing. “For the last ten years, every time Paul needed money for a new car, I gave it to him. Every time Darren needed capital for his garage, I wrote the check. I paid for Bri’s college. I paid for Kelsey’s surgeries. I gave and I gave.” He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And in ten years, not one of them has asked me if I had enough money to buy my own medicine. Not one of them asked if I could afford heat. They only asked how much is left. They treated me like a bank account that was slowly reaching zero.”
He turned to me and reached out, touching my cheek with a cold, rough hand. “You are the only one who comes here and brings groceries, Scarlet. You are the only one who fixes the roof leaks without sending me an invoice. You are the only one who comes not for the money, but for the man.”
“I love you, Grandpa,” I said, tears pricking my eyes. “I do not care about the money.”
“I know,” he said firmly. “That is why you are the only one I can trust with the burden of it. I do not need you to believe me tonight. I know you are skeptical. You are a woman of facts and figures. But promise me you will not throw that key away. Promise me you will not let them bully you into handing it over.”
“I promise,” I whispered.
“Good,” he said. “Now go to sleep. It is cold, and you have a long drive back to Portland.”
“I can stay,” I said. “I can stay a few days.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Go back to your life. Go back to your work. You will need your strength.”
He turned back to the dark forest, ending the conversation. I went up to my room, the small attic room I had slept in since I was five. I lay under the heavy quilts, listening to the house settle. I could hear my father snoring in the room below. I pulled the velvet box out of my pocket. I took out
