The old desk.
“Where is Grandpa’s desk now?”
Robert checked his notes.
“According to the estate inventory, it was listed as transferred to your parents’ residence after his death.”
I stared at the wall.
My parents still lived in the same house where I had grown up. The house with the oak staircase, the formal dining room, and the library where Mason had overheard my mother speaking to Jake.
The desk might still be there.
Or the envelope might have been removed years ago.
Either possibility frightened me.
“What happens if the documents prove my mother transferred the money illegally?”
“That will depend on the evidence, the applicable law, and the findings of the relevant authorities. You may have civil remedies, and certain conduct could warrant further investigation.”
“And Jake?”
Robert folded his hands.
“That depends on what he knew and what he did.”
I thought about my brother’s face at the wedding.
His frightened eyes.
His whispered apology.
His refusal to answer when I asked how long he had known about the building.
“Can I trust him?”
Robert didn’t answer immediately.
“I can’t make that decision for you. But I can tell you that trust should be based on what someone does when the truth becomes inconvenient.”
I left his office carrying copies of the documents and my grandfather’s letter.
On the drive home, I stopped at a traffic light beside a row of small shops.
Across the intersection, I could see the roof of a building with a faded sign.
For a moment, I imagined Grandpa standing beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder.
I imagined him telling me that I was stronger than I realized.
Then my phone rang.
It was Jake.
This time, I answered.
“Sarah, thank God.”
“What do you want?”
He went quiet.
“I need to explain.”
“Then explain.”
“I didn’t know everything Mom was doing. I swear.”
“But you knew the building belonged to me.”
“Yes.”
“And you used it for your business.”
“Yes.”
“Did you pay rent?”
He hesitated.
“Not directly.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much have you paid our parents over the years?”
“Sarah, that’s complicated.”
“No. It’s a number.”
He exhaled shakily.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Then find out.”
“I will.”
“And Jake?”
“Yes?”
“If you call me again, don’t ask me to protect you from the truth.”
I ended the call.
For the first time in years, I felt no obligation to make him feel better.
That afternoon, I drove to my parents’ house.
I told myself I was going to ask about the desk.
I told myself I would remain calm and leave if the conversation became hostile.
But as I parked in front of the familiar brick house, I noticed a large black SUV in the driveway.
A man I didn’t recognize was standing on the porch, speaking to my father.
When he saw my car, he stopped talking.
My father followed his gaze.
The expression on his face changed immediately.
He hurried toward me before I had even opened my door.
“Sarah, what are you doing here?”
“I need to see Grandpa’s desk.”
His face went rigid.
“What desk?”
“The oak desk you took from his house after he died.”
My father looked toward the porch.
The stranger closed a leather folder.
Then he walked down the steps.
“Mr. Mitchell,” he said quietly, “I believe you should let your daughter inside.”
My father turned toward him.
“That is not your decision.”
The man glanced at me.
“Sarah, my name is Michael Grant. I’m a forensic accountant.”
I looked at my father.
Then at Michael.
“Why are you here?”
Michael answered before my father could.
“Because someone has been moving money through accounts connected to the property your grandfather left you.”
