“Wait,” Jake whispered. “I’m in the basement workshop. Under the main cedar table, the one Grandpa built in sixty-eight. There is a brass key taped to the underside of the frame.”
“Don’t touch it,” I said. “Leave it where it is until I get there.”
I hung up and looked at Mr. Harlow. He was already standing, holding his coat by the collar. He did not ask for an explanation. He simply took the Manila envelope with the black thumb drive and slid it into his inner breast pocket.
“My car is outside,” he said.
We drove through the twilight in silence. The rain was beginning to blur the taillights of the traffic ahead of us on the bridge.
Grandpa’s house sat on a narrow gravel road that sloped down toward the Columbia River. When we pulled into the gravel driveway, my father’s black sedan was parked sideways across the grass, blocking the path to the garage.
The front door of the cottage was wide open. Yellow light spilled out onto the porch, illuminating my mother, Helen, who stood near the railing. She was brushing non-existent dust from the sleeve of her gray wool coat with quick, jerky movements.
My father, Richard, stood beside her. He adjusted his gold cufflinks, his eyes fixed on our headlamps as we parked.
I got out of the car, keeping my stride even despite the stiffness in my leg. Mr. Harlow walked half a step behind me.
“This is private property, Emily,” Richard said. His voice was slow, deliberate, and patronizing. “We are organizing your grandfather’s affairs. You have no business here tonight.”
“The will hasn’t cleared probate,” I said. “You don’t own this dirt yet.”
“We own the debt on it,” Helen said. She did not look at me. Her pronunciation was sharp and clipped, like she was trying to bite the ends off her words. “Your grandfather was not a businessman. He owed your father thirty thousand dollars.”
