I only knew that I had been told to leave my family's farmhouse.
And, for the first time since Jeff died, I had decided where we would go.
The closing took place four days after Jeff's funeral.
I sat in a small office at the title company with a stack of documents in front of me, a pen in my hand, and a nervousness I hadn't felt since signing the mortgage papers for our first home.
Alma Kessler sat across the table.
She had brought a little tin containing peppermints, which she offered to everyone in the room.
“Big decisions are easier when your mouth isn't dry,” she said.
I accepted one.
The closing officer explained each document carefully.
The property consisted of eighty acres, including the house, barn, sheds, and surrounding fields. The title search had found no outstanding mortgage, and the necessary documents were ready for recording.
The final purchase price was four hundred sixty-two thousand dollars.
After fees and closing expenses, I would have less than thirty-five thousand dollars left from Frank's check.
I knew that wasn't a comfortable financial cushion.
It wasn't enough to operate a farm carelessly.
It certainly wasn't enough to replace expensive machinery whenever something went wrong.
But I had spent twenty years helping Jeff manage difficult growing seasons.
I knew how to stretch money.
More importantly, I understood the difference between starting small and starting without a plan.
I signed my name.
Melissa Engel.
The closing officer turned the final page toward me.
When the last signature was complete, Alma slid a set of keys across the table.
“They'll stick a little in the front door,” she said. “Pull the handle toward you when you turn them.”
I laughed.
“Thank you for warning me.”
She held my hand for a moment.
“Make a good life there.”
“I intend to.”
On the drive back, Josie kept the keys in her lap.
Every few miles, she checked that they were still there.
“Can I unlock the door first?” she asked.
“You certainly can.”
“Even if it sticks?”
“Especially if it sticks.”
We stopped at our rented storage unit to collect the things we could fit into my car.
The moving truck wouldn't arrive until the afternoon.
Josie chose her father's photograph, her schoolbag, a box of books, and the blue blanket she had slept with since childhood.
I carried a broom, cleaning supplies, a coffeemaker, and a bag containing groceries.
It wasn't much to begin a household.
But it was ours.
When we turned into the driveway, Alma's old FOR SALE sign was lying beside the fence.
The realtor had taken it down that morning.
Josie got out before I finished parking.
She ran up the steps, slipped the key into the lock, and pulled the handle exactly as Alma had instructed.
The door opened.
She turned toward me.
“Mom!”
I stood beside the car, watching her smile.
It was the first time she'd looked that happy since the hospital.
She waited for me at the doorway.
“Are you coming?”
I carried the groceries inside.
The house was empty except for a refrigerator, an old kitchen table Alma had included in the sale, and several shelves built into the living room wall.
Sunlight came through the dusty windows.
The floorboards creaked.
A faucet dripped in the bathroom.
Josie walked from room to room, announcing what each one might become.
“This could be my bedroom.”
“That could be your office.”
“We could put the Christmas tree over there.”
I followed her, making a mental list of repairs.
Then she opened a narrow door beneath the stairs.
Inside was a small storage space.
She looked at me with a seriousness that didn't match her age.
“We can keep Daddy's things here until we know where they belong.”
I nodded.
“That's a good idea.”
She closed the door gently.
We began cleaning.
I opened windows, swept the kitchen, and wiped years of dust from the counters.
Josie cleaned the shelves in her bedroom.
By lunchtime, we'd filled three trash bags.
I made peanut butter sandwiches and carried them onto the porch.
Across the road, Frank and Dale's machines were moving through the family fields.
The contrast was almost ridiculous.
Their operation had modern tractors, large planters, grain storage, repair equipment, and hired help.
I had eighty acres of dryland ground, a small house needing work, and a broom with a cracked handle.
I was eating lunch from a paper towel because I hadn't unpacked the dishes.
Still, I felt something I hadn't experienced in days.
Relief.
The first person to notice us was Dale.
He was driving a tractor along the field entrance when our moving truck arrived later that afternoon.
He slowed.
I watched him turn his head toward the driveway.
Then he picked up his phone.
Within minutes, Frank's pickup appeared.
He pulled onto the shoulder across from our new property.
Dale stopped beside him.
The two men stood looking at the moving truck.
I could almost hear their conversation.
They had expected me to go to town.
Perhaps they imagined I'd leave Nebraska entirely.
They certainly hadn't expected me to settle where they would see me every day.
Frank crossed the road.
He walked up the driveway with the stiff, purposeful stride he used whenever he intended to correct somebody.
“Melissa.”
I put down a box.
“Frank.”
He looked at the house.
“What are you doing here?”
“Moving.”
“I can see that.”
“Then you already have your answer.”
He glanced toward the fields.
“You bought Alma's place?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I almost laughed.
“Because it was for sale.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You know what I'm asking.”
I waited.
Frank looked toward Josie, who was carrying a small box from the truck.
“This isn't a practical arrangement.”
“It's our home.”
“That land hasn't been properly worked in two years.”
“I know.”
“The house needs repairs.”
“I know that, too.”
“You're going to spend every dollar trying to make it work.”
“That's a decision I'll have to manage.”
He folded his arms.
“You're not a farmer, Melissa.”
I looked at him.
“I've lived on a farm for twenty years.”
“Living on one and running one are different things.”
He wasn't entirely wrong.
I had never been the sole person responsible for a spring planting.
But I had ordered supplies, managed household accounts during lean seasons, helped move equipment, taken field samples, and learned enough from Jeff to understand what needed to happen.
I knew where my experience ended.
That was why I intended to ask for advice before making expensive mistakes.
Frank didn't know what I had planned.
He was simply accustomed to treating his opinion as the end of a discussion.
“I suppose we'll find out,” I said.
He glanced at the moving truck again.
“Are you trying to make a point?”
“No. I'm trying to make a home.”
He seemed dissatisfied with that answer.
“People are going to talk.”
“They already are.”
His face flushed slightly.
I continued.
“You gave me a check and told me to leave. I left. Now I'm standing on property I bought.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“Then you should have been clearer.”
For a moment, I saw the same expression he'd worn at the funeral table.
That mixture of irritation and disbelief whenever someone declined to follow his instructions.
He looked past me toward the barn.
“I hope you know what you're doing.”
“So do I.”
He turned and walked back across the road.
Dale remained beside his tractor.
He lifted one hand.
I lifted mine in return.
Neither of us smiled.
By evening, the moving truck was gone.
Our furniture filled the rooms unevenly.
We had no sofa yet, but the beds were assembled.
The refrigerator was running.
The water heater worked.
Josie had taped three family photographs to the wall beside her bed.
We ate macaroni and cheese at Alma's old table.
Afterward, I walked through the house checking locks and windows.
When I reached the front door, I switched on the porch light.
Across the road, the Engel farmhouse was dark.
I stood there remembering Jeff coming home after sunset.
Sometimes he would stop at the kitchen door and take off his boots before coming inside.
Sometimes, when the day had been particularly difficult, he'd sit on the steps for five minutes before speaking.
I had learned not to interrupt those moments.
He needed time to leave the field behind.
Now I was the one standing on a porch, trying to understand where the day had taken me.
“Mom?”
Josie appeared behind me.
“Are you okay?”
I considered telling her I was fine.
Instead, I said, “I'm thinking about your dad.”
“Me, too.”
She stepped outside.
We stood together watching the last light disappear above the fields.
Then Josie said something that stayed with me.
“I think he'd be surprised.”
“About what?”
“That you bought a farm.”
I smiled faintly.
“He probably would.”
“But I don't think he'd be mad.”
“No,” I said. “I don't think he would.”
The next morning, I began making a serious assessment of what we'd bought.
The buildings were manageable with repairs, but the land needed attention.
About sixty-eight acres were workable ground. The rest included the house, trees, outbuildings, field margins, and rough areas.
The soil was dry.
Weeds had established themselves along the edges.
There were places where equipment would need to move carefully around ruts left by the last tenant.
I found old field records in the barn office and called the county extension office for guidance.
I also contacted a local agronomist, explained my limited budget, and asked what information would be most useful before planting.
He didn't pretend the situation was easy.
“You're getting a late start on preparation,” he told me. “And this ground needs a careful look.”
“I know.”
“What's your equipment situation?”
“I'm working on it.”
He chuckled.
“That usually means none.”
“That's reasonably accurate.”
He offered to walk the fields with me.
I accepted.
There was no shame in needing advice.
Jeff had taught me that a farmer who refused to ask questions could lose a year's profit before lunch.
The agronomist visited that afternoon.
We checked the soil, discussed the field history, and reviewed the expected conditions for planting.
He recommended limiting expenses, taking soil samples, and being realistic about yields.
We talked through what could be planted in the workable portions and which areas needed additional preparation.
I wasn't going to turn eighty neglected acres into a perfect operation in one season.
I needed to begin carefully.
That meant identifying what I could afford, what I could borrow, and what I should leave alone until the following year.
When he departed, I sat at the kitchen table with a calculator.
Seed.
Fuel.
Repairs.
Insurance.
Property taxes.
Living expenses.
Every line mattered.
I had already spent most of the check on the land.
One major equipment failure could consume much of the money remaining.
I wrote a simple rule at the top of my notebook.
No unnecessary purchases.
Then I called a retired farmer named Harold Slattery.
Harold was seventy-one and lived six miles away.
He had known Jeff for decades.
Years earlier, he and Jeff had traded labor during harvest whenever one of them fell behind.
When I explained what I was doing, Harold was silent.
Finally, he asked, “Did Frank put you up to this?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I laughed.
“I need equipment, Harold. Not a lecture.”
“Those two things sometimes arrive together.”
He told me about an older tractor available through a neighbor's estate.
It wasn't pretty.
It had several known problems.
But the engine was serviceable, and the price was within reach.
He also had a grain drill I could borrow for cover-crop work along the field margins, along with a small four-row corn planter that might be usable after repairs.
“Don't pay somebody a fortune for machinery you're only going to use a few days,” he said.
“What's the catch?”
“You clean it before returning it.”
“That seems fair.”
“And you don't pretend to know something when you don't.”
I smiled.
“That's an even better arrangement.”
Two days later, the old tractor arrived.
It was faded red, with patches of rust around the hood and a seat that had seen better years.
The seller explained the starting procedure twice.
Harold inspected it with me before I agreed to the purchase.
We checked the fluids, tested the hydraulics, and looked for obvious problems.
The tractor was far from ideal.
But it ran.
I paid eight thousand two hundred dollars.
When the seller drove away, I climbed into the seat and turned the key.
The engine coughed.
Nothing happened.
I tried again.
It sputtered, then finally started.
Josie, standing near the barn, raised both arms in celebration.
I laughed so hard I nearly forgot to release the brake.
Harold shook his head.
“Don't congratulate it yet. It hasn't done any work.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon learning its habits.
The clutch was stiff.
The steering required more effort than I expected.
One gauge worked intermittently.
Harold showed me how to check everything manually before trusting an old machine.
When I climbed down, my legs felt unsteady.
He looked at me.
“You sure you want to do this?”
I glanced across the road.
Frank's large planter was moving through a prepared field with steady precision.
Then I looked back at my tractor.
“Yes.”
Harold nodded.
“Then we'll make a list of what needs fixing first.”
He didn't offer to run the farm for me.
He gave advice, checked my work, and made sure I understood the risks.
I valued that more than empty encouragement.
The first week in our new house passed in a blur of cleaning, paperwork, and preparation.
Josie returned to school.
She had missed several days after Jeff's death.
Her teacher arranged extra time for assignments and told me there was no need to rush.
Josie insisted on going back.
“I want something normal,” she said.
I understood.
But school wasn't entirely normal.
Several children had heard that her uncles had made us leave our house.
One boy asked whether we were poor now.
Another said his father had heard we were rich because Frank had given us half a million dollars.
Josie came home angry.
“They think they know everything.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That they should mind their own business.”
I set down the dish towel.
“That sounds reasonable.”
She looked surprised.
“You're not mad?”
“Not about that.”
She sat at the kitchen table.
“Do you think Uncle Frank told people he gave us money because he was being nice?”
“I think Uncle Frank wants people to see the situation his way.”
“That's not the same as telling the truth.”
“No,” I said. “It isn't.”
She stared at the table for a while.
Then she asked whether her father had owned any of the farm.
“Yes. He had an ownership interest in Engel Farms.”
“Then shouldn't some of it belong to us?”
The question was simple.
The answer was not.
“Your dad made arrangements for us,” I said. “I need to find the documents so I can understand them properly.”
“Did Uncle Frank take them?”
“I don't know.”
“Would he?”
I couldn't bring myself to answer.
I had known Frank for twenty years.
He could be controlling, dismissive, and harsh.
But believing he might deliberately take advantage of his brother's death required crossing a line I wasn't ready to cross without evidence.
“I won't accuse anyone until I know,” I told her.
Josie nodded reluctantly.
That evening, I opened the notebook Jeff had used for equipment expenses.
I searched again for any reference to the company's ownership agreement.
Most entries concerned repairs and purchases.
There were numbers beside machinery descriptions, fuel costs, and seasonal expenses.
One page contained calculations about debt payments.
Another listed questions for the accountant.
I recognized several figures from discussions Jeff and I had shared at the kitchen table.
During the previous winter, Jeff had expressed concern about borrowing.
Frank wanted to expand the operation.
Jeff wanted to slow down.
I remembered him saying that the farm looked profitable on paper but carried more debt than he liked.
At the time, I assumed it was another ordinary disagreement between brothers.
Now I wasn't certain.
I placed the notebook with our personal records.
Then I called Paul Beck, the accountant.
His assistant answered and said he was busy preparing reports.
I left a message asking for copies of any documents concerning Jeff's ownership interest and the payment issued after his death.
Paul returned my call that afternoon.
He sounded uncomfortable.
“Melissa, I'm very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand you've moved.”
“We bought Alma Kessler's place.”
“Yes. I heard.”
There was a pause.
“I need to understand the check Frank gave me,” I said.
Paul cleared his throat.
“That's a matter involving the company and the estate.”
“I understand. What does it represent?”
“I'd prefer to discuss that once the appropriate legal representatives are involved.”
“Did you prepare the payment?”
He hesitated.
“I've been involved in the accounting.”
“Was it a buyout of Jeff's share?”
“I can't give you a complete answer over the phone.”
I gripped the receiver.
“Paul, I was married to him for twenty years.”
“I know.”
“I'm not asking for a favor. I'm asking what happened to his ownership.”
His voice softened.
“Then you should get independent legal advice. And you should request the records formally.”
I sat very still.
“Is there something wrong?”
“I didn't say that.”
“Then why does everybody keep telling me to get a lawyer?”
He didn't answer directly.
“I'll cooperate with a proper request,” he said.
When the call ended, I looked at the folder containing my copy of the check.
I had been treating the money as the only thing left to discuss.
But Paul hadn't said the payment was final.
And Frank hadn't given me anything to sign at the funeral.
There were questions I needed answered.
I wrote them down.
For the moment, though, planting couldn't wait.
The soil was warming.
The forecast showed a few workable days before another front might bring rain.
The agronomist and Harold helped me settle on a modest plan.
I would focus on getting the prepared portions of the field planted correctly rather than rushing every acre.
We checked the planter, replaced several worn components, and made adjustments for seed placement.
Harold showed me how to test the planter's operation before entering the field.
He was patient until I made the same mistake twice.
Then he became very direct.
“Melissa, if you don't check the depth, the seed won't care how determined you are.”
I raised both hands.
“Understood.”
“Good. Let's do it again.”
By the morning of April twenty-first, we were ready to begin.
Or as ready as I was likely to be.
The sky was clear.
The wind was light.
The ground had dried enough to work.
I packed sandwiches, water, gloves, and a first-aid kit.
Josie wanted to help after school.
I told her she could assist with safe tasks on the ground but wasn't going to operate machinery.
She complained that Jeff had promised to teach her.
“He would have taught you carefully,” I replied. “And so will I, when the time is right.”
The tractor started on the third attempt.
I checked the planter, climbed into the seat, and drove toward the field.
The first few rows were not as straight as Jeff's would have been.
I stopped twice to inspect the seed placement.
I adjusted the equipment and tried again.
After an hour, I had covered less ground than Frank's machine could manage in minutes.
But I was planting.
I could almost hear Jeff pointing out what I needed to change.
He would have told me to relax my shoulders.
He would have reminded me to watch the marker rather than staring at the front tires.
He would have laughed when the tractor stalled at the edge of the field.
Then he would have helped me restart it.
I missed his voice so much that I had to stop working for a few minutes.
I climbed down and stood beside the tractor.
The field stretched toward the road.
On the other side, Frank's machinery moved steadily through the family ground.
I wiped my face with my sleeve.
Then I got back into the seat.
By afternoon, Josie had arrived home from school.
She changed into old jeans and came outside to help me organize the remaining supplies.
We were moving seed bags near the machine shed when one caught against a rusty corner.
The bag tore.
Corn kernels spilled onto the dirt.
I lunged to catch it, but the opening widened.
“Hold that side!” I called.
Josie grabbed the bag with both arms.
Together we lowered it to the ground.
Seed scattered around our boots.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Josie looked at the mess.
“Daddy would have said a bad word.”
I stared at her.
She waited.
Finally, I laughed.
“He probably would have.”
“Are you going to?”
“I'm considering it.”
She laughed, too.
Then we gathered what we could, separating the spilled seed from dirt and debris.
I didn't use contaminated seed in the planter.
It was another small loss I couldn't afford.
The torn bag went into the shed, and I checked the remaining ones for damage.
Across the road, a large tractor approached.
Dale was driving.
He slowed as he passed our field.
I stood and raised my hand.
For a moment, I thought he might stop.
He had seen the spilled seed.
He had seen our old machinery.
He knew what starting a spring planting without experienced help could mean.
But he only lifted one hand from the steering wheel.
Then he continued toward the far field.
Frank followed in another machine.
He didn't even slow down.
Josie watched them pass.
“They saw us.”
“Yes.”
“They could have helped.”
“Yes.”
She looked down at the remaining seed.
“Daddy would have stopped.”
I knew she was right.
Jeff once spent an entire afternoon helping a neighbor repair a planter, even though it delayed his own work.
When I complained that evening about how far behind we were, he told me something I still remembered.
“A broken machine doesn't care whose field it's in.”
That was Jeff.
He didn't calculate whether helping somebody would make him appear generous.
He just helped.
I looked at my daughter.
“We'll manage.”
She looked toward the road.
“I don't like them very much.”
I didn't correct her feelings.
But I didn't want her growing up believing that resentment was the only answer to cruelty.
“You don't have to like what they've done,” I said. “But don't let them decide what kind of person you become.”
She considered that.
Then she picked up the empty seed bag.
“I'm still not waving next time.”
“That part is your decision.”
We worked until late afternoon.
By then, my shoulders were aching and my hands felt raw despite the gloves.
The tractor had stalled twice.
A hydraulic connection had started leaking.
And I had spent nearly an hour checking a planter adjustment I feared I'd made incorrectly.
It was a humbling day.
I had helped Jeff through difficult seasons, but there was a difference between being a capable partner and carrying every responsibility alone.
I couldn't ask him to check the settings.
I couldn't call him from the field.
I couldn't hear him say that a problem was manageable because he'd seen worse.
That absence followed me everywhere.
Harold stopped by shortly before sunset.
He inspected the equipment and listened while I described the day's problems.
When I finished, he nodded.
“Sounds like your first day.”
“I don't think that's a compliment.”
“It isn't an insult.”
He looked over the field.
“Your rows are improving.”
“They were terrible this morning.”
“Then you've learned something.”
He helped me identify the hydraulic leak and explained what needed repairing before I worked again.
I thanked him.
He shrugged.
“Jeff helped me enough times. Besides, I like seeing somebody put that ground back to use.”
I watched him walk toward his pickup.
“Harold?”
He turned.
“Do you think I'm making a mistake?”
He studied me for a moment.
“Buying the place?”
“Yes.”
“I think you bought yourself a lot of work.”
“I know that.”
“Then the question is whether you want the life that comes with it.”
I looked toward the house.
Josie was standing on the porch holding a plate.
She had made sandwiches.
“I think I do.”
Harold nodded.
“Then don't try to finish ten years of work in one spring.”
After he left, I put the tools away and returned to the house.
Josie had prepared toast and cut apples.
She'd also poured two glasses of milk.
“Dinner,” she announced.
I looked at the plates.
“Beautiful.”
“It's not much.”
“It's exactly what I wanted.”
We ate at the kitchen table.
My back hurt when I leaned forward.
My arms felt heavy.
I was almost afraid to look at the figures in my expense notebook.
Josie watched me quietly.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Are we going to run out of money?”
I set down my glass.
The question deserved an honest answer.
“We have to be careful.”
“Because the farm costs a lot?”
“Yes.”
“And because Daddy isn't here?”
I nodded.
She stared at the apple slices on her plate.
“I don't want you to do all this just because I said I wanted to stay here.”
I reached across the table.
“Listen to me. I made the decision to buy this farm. You didn't make it for me.”
“But what if it doesn't work?”
“Then we'll figure out another plan. That's what families do.”
She looked worried.
“Would we have to leave?”
“I can't promise we'll never face hard choices.”
I squeezed her hand.
“But nobody is going to make those choices for us without us having a say.”
She sat with that answer for a moment.
Then she said, “I wish Daddy could see our tractor.”
I smiled.
“He'd probably have three opinions about it before breakfast.”
“Only three?”
“On a good day.”
We both laughed.
After dinner, Josie went to her room to finish homework.
I washed the dishes, then stood at the kitchen sink watching the fields darken.
A light was burning in the Engel farmhouse.
Frank's truck sat near the equipment shed.
I could see movement through the office window.
For twenty years, that had been my view from the other side of the road.
I wondered whether Frank was inside going through Jeff's records.
I wondered why Paul Beck had sounded so guarded.
And I wondered whether accepting the check had been a terrible mistake.
I opened the folder I'd brought from the old house.
Inside were copies of the check, Jeff's notebook, our wills, and a handful of insurance papers.
I searched again for any document explaining what happened to Jeff's interest in Engel Farms after his death.
I found nothing.
There was an older statement showing the farm's ownership divided among the brothers.
Jeff's name appeared beside his share.
I stared at the page.
It didn't answer my questions.
But it confirmed something important.
My husband hadn't merely lived in the company farmhouse.
He had been one of the people who owned the company.
And if his ownership had been transferred, somebody should have been able to explain how.
I set the statement beside the check.
For a long time, I looked at them together.
Then I closed the folder.
I was too tired to solve anything that night.
Before bed, I checked the locks and turned off the kitchen light.
Josie was already asleep.
I stood in her doorway.
Her father's photograph rested on the dresser.
Beside it, she had placed a small jar containing a few clean kernels she'd picked up from the field.
I touched the doorframe.
There were no pencil marks on it yet.
The thought hurt more than I expected.
At the old farmhouse, Jeff had measured her every birthday.
Here, the wood was empty.
I could start a new set of marks.
But I couldn't bring him back to write them.
I returned to the living room and sat in the dark.
At some point, exhaustion finally overcame me.
The following morning, I woke before six.
My back was stiff.
Rain was predicted later in the week, and I needed to repair the equipment before continuing.
I made coffee and opened the front door.
The air smelled of damp earth.
A pale strip of sunlight stretched across the eastern horizon.
For a moment, the farm was peaceful.
Then I noticed someone walking along the county road.
He came from the direction of the Engel equipment sheds.
At first I thought it was one of the hired hands.
But as he approached the driveway, I recognized him.
Luke Engel.
Frank's son.
He was twenty-four, tall and lean, with the same dark hair Jeff had worn when we first married.
Luke had worked summers on the family farm since high school and had gradually taken on more responsibility.
He knew how to repair equipment, operate machinery, and manage difficult field conditions.
He was also the young man who had found Jeff after his collapse.
Since the funeral, I'd seen him only from a distance.
He hadn't come to our new house.
He hadn't called.
I assumed he was trying to manage his own grief while working for his father.
But the way he approached that morning told me something was wrong.
He kept looking behind him.
His shoulders were tense.
When he reached the gate, he stopped instead of coming up the driveway.
I stepped off the porch.
“Luke?”
He raised his hand.
“Morning, Aunt Melissa.”
“Everything all right?”
He didn't answer immediately.
I noticed a folded sheet of paper protruding from his jacket pocket.
His fingers kept touching it.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He glanced across the road.
I followed his gaze.
Frank's pickup was parked near the grain bins.
Its engine was running.
“Is something wrong with your dad?” I asked.
Luke shook his head.
“No. Not exactly.”
He looked at the house.
“Is Josie here?”
“She's getting ready for school.”
He nodded.
“Good. I didn't want to upset her.”
I felt a cold uneasiness settle in my stomach.
“Luke, what happened?”
He looked down at the gravel.
Then he raised his eyes.
“Aunt Melissa, there's something you need to know about Uncle Jeff's funeral.”
I stood very still.
He reached into his pocket.
“Dad told everyone that money was his way of helping you.”
“Yes.”
Luke unfolded the paper.
“That's not where it came from.”
Across the road, Frank climbed out of his pickup.
He stood beside the open door watching us.
Luke saw him.
His face went pale, but he didn't put the paper away.
