Chapter 7: The Roof Receipts

At seven on Monday morning, I called Conroy and told him to come to the house.

He didn't ask why.

He was on my porch in twenty minutes, in his canvas jacket, holding two coffees from the gas station and looking at the new deadbolt.

"Your grandfather did this?"

"Yes."

"It's a good lock."

"Come in. Read this."

I gave him the lawyer's letter at the kitchen table.

He read it twice, and his jaw moved.

"The kitchen," he said. "The roof."

"I paid for both. I have the receipts somewhere. My mother kept everything in banker's boxes in the attic."

"Then we find the receipts."

"We?"

"You said you give the orders." He put the letter down. "I'm taking the first one."

I almost smiled.

The attic ladder was a pull-down with a rail the color of old tea.

I went up first, because it was my house.

The boxes were stacked under the eaves, labeled in my mother's square handwriting: TAXES, ROOF, KITCHEN, MISC.

I had my hand on the top box when I felt a sharp sting in my palm.

"Ow."

"What?"

"Splinter." I turned my hand over. "The rail."

Conroy came up the last two rungs and ducked his head under the rafters.

The attic was small, and he took up most of it.

"Let me see."

"I can do it."

"I know you can." He took my wrist anyway. "Hold still."

He turned my hand toward the one bare bulb.

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