And apparently, his secrets.
We stood in silence until I finally said, “Are you sure he gave this to you? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“Because I promised Dad I wouldn’t,” he said. “He told me not to open it. He said it wasn’t the right time. Not until Grandpa was gone.”
A serious teenage boy looking dapper in a suit | Source: Pexels
There were too many questions to ask, but only one path forward.
“We’re going,” I said.
By the time we got to Harold’s house, the sky had darkened. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy and cold. The house looked exactly as I remembered: a two-story colonial with peeling paint and a cracked front step.
The curtains were still drawn shut, just like they always were, and the place felt frozen in time, like even death hadn’t been able to touch it.
Kiran walked up to the porch and reached under the left side of the wooden railing. He pulled out a flat black magnet, then lifted a small metal key from beneath it. I stared at him.
“How’d you know it was there?”
He shrugged. “He always hid it in the same spot.”
Inside, the house smelled like mothballs and old wood. The air was musty, but not like in an abandoned place. There were signs Harold had still been living here: half-empty water glasses, a worn recliner, a newspaper dated two weeks ago.
However, something about the space felt guarded, like it didn’t want us there.
Part of the reason Harold banned us from his house was that, before my husband died, my FIL already hated us. The thing was, Harold had always lived recklessly. He spent his money too easily, frequently socialized with friends, and always borrowed money, among other things.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
