Chapter 3 - THE MONEY THAT DISAPPEARED"One hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars."
I repeated the number aloud, certain I had misunderstood.
Grandma watched me from her hospice bed.
Miles Wexler remained silent on the other end of the phone.
"You're telling me the dealer paid a hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars for Grandma's piano?"
"That is the amount recorded in the dealer's preliminary purchase documentation," Miles explained. "We still need to verify the complete payment trail."
"But Dad said ninety-five thousand."
"Yes."
I looked toward Grandma.
She closed her eyes.
There was no anger in her expression.
Only exhaustion.
The difference was fifty-three thousand dollars.
Fifty-three thousand dollars that nobody had mentioned.
My father had sold a piano that didn't belong to him, used part of the proceeds to buy Delaney a Mercedes, and apparently concealed a substantial amount of money.
I sat down heavily.
"Where did the rest go?"
"That's what we're trying to determine," Miles replied. "The dealer is cooperating with our request for records. I don't want to speculate until we've examined them."
Grandma held out her hand.
I gave her the phone.
"Miles, please make sure the instrument is safe."
"That's our priority, Loretta."
"And Everett?"
She glanced toward me.
"Don't let him blame himself for any of this."
Her voice broke slightly.
I looked away.
After the call, Grandma asked me to open the drawer beside her bed.
Inside was an old photograph.
It showed her sitting at the piano in a pale blue dress.
Grandpa Henry stood behind her, smiling.
They looked impossibly young.
"Do you remember your grandfather?" she asked.
"Of course."
"He bought that piano before we moved into the lakehouse."
I looked at the photograph.
"I thought you inherited it."
"No. Henry found it through a dealer in Chicago. It needed repairs, and we spent months saving enough to restore it."
She smiled at the memory.
"He worked late every evening. I taught piano lessons in our first little apartment. We counted every dollar."
I had never heard the entire story.
Grandma touched the photograph.
"When we finally brought it home, Henry told me that someday it should belong to someone who understood what it meant."
I swallowed.
"That's why you promised it to me?"
She nodded.
"Not because you're my favorite grandchild, Everett. Love isn't a competition. But you're the one who understands that an instrument is meant to make music, not display wealth."
I stared at the photograph.
For years, I had thought of the piano as a beautiful object.
Now I understood it was also a record of two people building a life together.
Grandma took my hand.
"Whatever happens, don't let this make you bitter."
I almost smiled.
"That's a difficult request."
"I know."
She squeezed my fingers.
"But bitterness is another way of letting someone take something from you."
That night, I barely slept.
I kept thinking about the missing fifty-three thousand dollars.
By morning, my phone was filled with messages.
Most came from relatives who had attended the birthday celebration.
Some offered sympathy.
Others asked whether my father was really in financial trouble.
One cousin wanted to know if Grandma had changed her will.
That message made me physically uncomfortable.
Even after everything that had happened, some members of our family seemed more concerned about inheritance than about Grandma herself.
Then Delaney called.
I almost ignored it.
We hadn't had a meaningful conversation in years.
But I answered.
"Everett."
Her voice sounded different.
Less polished.
Less confident.
"What do you want, Delaney?"
"I need to talk to you."
"About the car?"
"About Dad."
I sat on the edge of my bed.
"What about him?"
She hesitated.
"Ryder won't answer my calls."
"That's between you and Ryder."
"No, you don't understand."
I heard her breathing.
"His father told him to stay away from our family until the financial investigation is finished."
I didn't know what to say.
For Delaney, the Ashb family had represented everything she believed she needed.
Money.
Status.
Security.
And now that future was uncertain.
"I'm sorry," I said.
She gave a small, bitter laugh.
"You don't sound sorry."
"I'm sorry you're hurting. That doesn't mean what Dad did was acceptable."
Silence.
Then she asked a question I hadn't expected.
"Do you really think Dad stole the piano?"
"Delaney, he admitted selling it."
"But he said Grandma wanted me to have the car."
"Did you ever ask Grandma?"
She didn't answer.
"Delaney?"
"No."
Her voice dropped.
"I didn't."
For the first time, I wondered whether my sister had believed our father's lies because accepting them was easier than questioning the gift.
Then she said something that changed the conversation.
"Everett, there was another car."
I frowned.
"What?"
"Not a car. A payment."
I sat straighter.
"What payment?"
She lowered her voice.
"I heard Mom and Dad arguing two nights before my birthday. Mom said something about fifty thousand dollars and a man named Bennett."
My pulse quickened.
"Bennett who?"
"I don't know."
"Did they say what the money was for?"
There was a long pause.
Then Delaney whispered:
"Mom said if Bennett didn't get paid, he would tell Hugh everything."
I stared at the wall.
A man named Bennett.
Fifty thousand dollars.
And a secret that could destroy Dad's relationship with his business partner.
I reached for a pen.
"Delaney, I need you to tell me exactly what you heard."
Before she could answer, a man's voice sounded in the background.
Dad.
"Who are you talking to?"
Delaney gasped.
Then the call ended.
I immediately called her back.
No answer.
I tried again.
Straight to voicemail.
Twenty minutes later, I received a text message from an unknown number.
May you like
It contained only seven words.
Stop asking about Bennett. Your grandmother's next.
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