Chapter 13: What He Wrote

I sat down on the top step in Keir's shirt and opened the envelope.

The paper inside was lined and folded in thirds.

His handwriting was square and pressed hard into the paper.

*Freya,*

*You don't know me, and I wrote you once before. I'm Stanton's half brother. I'm writing again because I have no better way to reach you.*

*Seven years ago I read your father's name in the paper. The settlement figure was printed under it.*

*A month later my stepmother called me for the first time in four years.*

*She said Stanton was engaged to a sweet girl who had just lost her father. She said I wasn't invited.*

*When my own father died, she told me the money was handled. She used the same word.*

*I signed what she put in front of me. I was twenty-four, and I was grateful somebody was handling it.*

*There was nothing left of it a year later. I didn't ask where it went, and I have been ashamed of that for eleven years.*

*I can't prove anything. I'm only telling you what the word means in that house.*

*Call your bank. Ask them what name is at the top of your account.*

*I put a check in here for two thousand dollars. It's what I have. It isn't for any debt. It's for a taxi and a lawyer, if you ever need to leave.*

*If you do, Dot Svensson on Rice Street has my number.*

*Keir Orwell*

I held the letter in both hands.

A check was folded inside it, made out to me, in the same square writing.

It had never been cashed, because it had never reached anyone.

I read the last lines again. *It's for a taxi and a lawyer, if you ever need to leave.*