I sat motionless. I turned the page. On the back was a name written with an address and phone number: “Samuel Ross, Esq., Law Offices. He knows about the box.“

Blood began to buzz in my temples. The house. It wasn’t properly settled. Suddenly many things made terrifying sense. Rick’s insistence on entering the armoire. Elaine’s comments about “putting everything in order.” The time, six months ago, I heard Tom arguing in a low voice with his brother because Rick wanted their dad to sign some papers when he couldn’t even hold the pen properly. Back then my husband told me it was land business and not to get involved.

Sitting in that terminal  bathroom, with a box of money on my knees and a dead man’s letter in my hands, I felt like my life suddenly had a hole underneath it. I didn’t know whether to be happy, or scared, or to run.

In the end, I did the only thing I could: I packed everything away again, washed my face with ice-cold water, and walked out to the street holding my bag as if I were carrying my child inside.

On the way back, my soul left me at every stop. I imagined someone was following me, that the box would become transparent, that Rick or Nora would somehow know where I was. When I finally got off in town, it was already getting dark. I walked quickly, with my shawl pulled tight over my chest, and as I turned toward the house, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks.

The door to Ernie’s room was wide open. And in the yard, next to the old armoire, were my brothers-in-law. Rick had a hammer in his hand. Elaine was holding a black bag.

And Tom, my husband, was there with them. He didn’t look surprised. Or angry. Or even confused. He looked like someone who had finally decided whose side to take.

And when he looked up and saw me arrive with the grocery bag clutched against my body, I knew by his face that they hadn’t just been looking through the dead man’s things.