I looked at him.
“Who else?”
“Your mother.”
The thought had already occurred to me.
That was what frightened me.
The house was dark when we returned. My mother had left the porch light on, but no other windows glowed. Mr. Greer remained in the truck while I walked to the front door.
Before I knocked, it opened.
My father stood there in a robe and slippers.
He looked at the box in my arms.
“You found something.”
“How did you know?”
“Your mother told me you had taken the letters.”
“Photographs of letters.”
His gaze shifted toward the street.
“Is Mr. Greer with you?”
“Yes.”
He stepped aside.
“Come in.”
The foyer looked exactly as it had when I left, except for the photographs removed from the walls. My father led me to the kitchen. The table was covered with papers, a half-empty glass of water, and the medication bottles he had tried to hide earlier.
I set the box down.
He sat slowly.
“What happened to the money?” I asked.
His eyes closed.
For a moment, I wondered whether he would pretend not to understand.
Then he said, “Your mother used most of it to pay the business debts.”
“Most?”
“Some went toward the house.”
“Why did you tell me it was temporary?”
“Because I believed I could replace it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
His answer was quiet, and it did not excuse him.
“How much was left?”
He looked toward the window.
“Almost twelve thousand dollars.”
I stared at him.
The inheritance had been nearly forty thousand.
“You took thirty thousand?”
“We didn’t take it. We borrowed it.”
“You borrowed it without a contract, without a repayment schedule, and without asking me?”
“I was your father.”
“That doesn’t make my money yours.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
The admission left a strange emptiness between us.
