Chapter 20: The Shoebox

Allison's POV

That night I asked him to come to the house, and I told him he could say no.

He said, "Let's see it."

We sat on the back porch with the light off.

It was the porch where he had once painted the railing white while I watched from the kitchen window and told myself I was working.

The deed to the house was in his lawyer's safe.

I had a shoebox in my lap.

"Before I start," I said, "I need you to know this is not an excuse."

"Then what is it?"

"The reason."

He waited.

I took the first thing out of the box.

It was a letter in my father's slanted handwriting, folded in thirds, soft from years of being handled.

"My father had a structural engineering firm," I said. "It was good."

"I remember you said he died when you were twenty-five."

"He did. Eight years ago."

"Before that, he had to close the firm."

"Why?"

"His sister's son worked for him. A nephew. He was talented, and my father gave him bigger and bigger jobs."

"Then three investors pulled out at once. They said my father had been playing favorites, and the contracts were rigged."

"Were they?"

"No. The nephew had earned every one."

"It didn't matter. Everyone believed it."

"Nobody hired him again. They stopped returning his calls. The nephew moved to another state and wouldn't speak to us."

"I watched my father sit in the dark kitchen in his work shirt for a whole winter."

Russell said nothing.

"He gave me this the week before he died," I said, and held out the letter. "Read it."

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