“What does that mean?”
“He owed more.”
“How much?”
Before I answered, Grace lifted another sheet from the desk.
“I think this explains it.”
She handed it to Harold.
I looked at the page.
And suddenly felt dizzy.
That wasn’t one of our financial documents.
I had never seen it before.
Harold read the first line.
Then the second.
His face lost all color.
“Emma.”
“What?”
He handed it to me.
It was a photocopy of a promissory note.
My father’s name appeared at the top.
Below it was another name.
**Grace Whitmore.**
The amount was:
**$75,000.**
I read it twice.
Then looked at Grace.
“What is this?”
For the first time that morning, she no longer looked triumphant.
She looked nervous.
Harold stepped toward her.
“Mom.”
Grace said nothing.
“Why is your name on a seventy-five-thousand-dollar loan involving Emma’s father?”
“I can explain.”
I stared at her.
“You knew my father?”
Grace went pale.
Harold looked between us.
“What is going on?”
Grace reached for the document.
I pulled it away.
“Don’t.”
“That paper does not concern you.”
“My father’s name is on it.”
“It was private.”
I laughed.
“Private?”
Harold’s expression hardened.
“Interesting choice of word.”
Grace ignored him.
She looked directly at me.
“Give that to me.”
“No.”
“Emma.”
“No.”
Something about her voice made the hair on my arms rise.
This wasn’t the same Grace who had argued about doors.
She was scared.
And Grace did not scare easily.
I flipped the page.
There was handwriting on the back.
A date.
A signature.
And one sentence.
I read it twice.
Harold stepped beside me.
“What does it say?”
I couldn’t answer.
He took the paper.
Then read the line himself.
His eyes moved toward his mother.
“Mom.”
Grace stepped backward.
