Chapter 12: Money in Work Boots

I walked into the Kinsella Freight dispatch office at eight in the morning and put a folder on Dean's desk.

All five brothers were in the room, because it was Tuesday and they ate breakfast there.

Dean looked at me, then at Tiernan behind me, then at the folder.

"You told her," he said to Tiernan.

"I did," Tiernan said.

"I thought we'd agreed to tell her after dinner Saturday," the surgeon said.

"Ma wanted her fed first," the firefighter said.

"You're worth one point nine billion dollars," I said.

The room went quiet.

"One point nine," the youngest said, with great care.

"And you put me in a dead girl's bedroom with a twin bed and a quilt from the church sale."

"It's a very nice quilt," Dean said.

"You drive thirty-year-old pickups!"

"They run."

"The boxer ate my pancakes off my plate!"

"You weren't eating them," the boxer said.

I started to laugh, and then I couldn't stop.

I laughed until I had to sit on the edge of Dean's desk.

The brothers began to grin one at a time.

The surgeon handed me a paper cup of water without being asked.

When I could talk again I wiped my eyes.

"Why?"

Dean's smile faded.

He sat down heavily in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Eleven years ago, after Pa died," he said.

"We were doing all right. Forty trucks. Ma was grieving.

Three weeks after the funeral, the Winslow Hospital Foundation sued Kinsella Freight over a crash that never happened."

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