“She told me you were searching inside the wall.”
He looked away.
“She also saw you put something in your pocket.”
Still nothing.
“Whatever this is, tell me the truth.”
Brian sat on the workbench.
Then he said something I wasn’t expecting.
“I should’ve told you six months ago.”
I stared at him.
“Six months?”
“I found something in the attic.”
“What?”
“An envelope.”
He hesitated.
“It had your father’s handwriting on it.”
My breath caught.
“My father?”
Brian nodded.
My father had been dead for twelve years.
He died of a heart attack at sixty-seven.
He was an accountant.
Quiet.
Dependable.
Not very good at emotional conversations.
He rarely said much, but he always showed up.
Maddie had been six months old when he died.
She never knew him.
“What was something written by Dad doing in our attic?”
“This used to be your grandmother’s house.”
That was true.
My grandparents had built the house in 1952.
My mother grew up here.
I spent part of my childhood here.
After Mom died, the house eventually became mine.
Brian continued.
“I found the envelope when I was fixing the attic vent.”
“Was it addressed to me?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you give it to me?”
His expression changed.
“I thought it might contain something difficult.”
“So you decided whether I should see it?”
“I didn’t open it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
He sighed.
“I put it back.”
“And then?”
“I kept thinking about it.”
“For six months?”
“Yes.”
FULL STORY on the next page.