Chapter 2: What Dad Had Been Hiding
Damon stopped on the last stair.
Nobody spoke.
The envelope sat behind my father's wheelchair, slightly damp from the water Damon had spilled.
My name was written across it in my father's handwriting.
Michael.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
But what bothered me wasn't the envelope.
It was Damon's face.
He looked terrified.
Not guilty.
Terrified.
I bent down and picked it up.
Damon swallowed.
"Where did that come from?""
I looked at him.
"You tell me.""
"I don't know.""
Dad reached toward me.
"Michael, give it to me.""
I didn't.
"Why?""
"It's private.""
"You wrote my name on it.""
"That doesn't mean you should open it.""
Damon stepped off the last stair.
"Grandpa, maybe we should just—"
"Stay where you are," I said.
He stopped.
I looked at the envelope again.
There was no stamp.
No address.
Only my name.
"Dad, what's inside?""
"Something I was going to give you.""
"When?""
Dad hesitated.
"Tonight.""
I looked at the clock.
It was 4:47.
"Why tonight?""
He didn't answer.
Damon shifted his weight.
I noticed.
"You know what's in here," I said.
"No.""
"Then why do you look scared?""
"I'm not scared.""
"You are.""
He shook his head.
"You've got this whole thing wrong.""
I looked at Dad.
"Did Damon know about this envelope?""
Dad's silence answered for him.
I turned toward my son.
"What did you do?""
"Nothing.""
"Damon.""
"I said nothing.""
Dad's voice suddenly sharpened.
"Michael, stop.""
I looked at him.
He was gripping the arms of his wheelchair.
His knuckles were white.
"Dad?""
"Please.""
The word changed the room.
I crouched in front of him.
"Okay.""
I lowered my voice.
"I'm not going to yell.""
He nodded.
"But I'm going to understand what's happening.""
Dad looked at the envelope.
Then at Damon.
Finally, he said, "I need you to sit down.""
Damon stared at him.
"Grandpa—"
"Sit.""
Something about Dad's tone made him obey.
Damon sat on the bottom stair.
I sat on the sofa.
Dad placed the towel across his lap.
For several seconds, he simply stared at his hands.
Then he said, "Your son has been taking money from me.""
Damon's head snapped up.
"What?""
I turned toward him.
"Is that true?""
"No.""
Dad's voice remained calm.
"Three times.""
"Dad—"
"Four, actually.""
Damon stood.
"That's a lie.""
I looked at him.
"Sit down.""
"He gave me that money.""
"Did you?""
Dad shook his head.
"I didn't.""
Damon's face twisted.
"You told me to take it.""
"I told you to take the envelope to the bank.""
"You gave me permission.""
"To deposit it.""
"Same thing.""
"No.""
Dad looked directly at him.
"Not the same thing.""
I felt the room becoming smaller.
"How much?"" I asked.
Dad didn't answer.
"Dad.""
"Eight hundred dollars.""
I closed my eyes for a second.
"Eight hundred?""
Damon laughed bitterly.
"You're seriously believing this?""
I looked at him.
"Are you saying he is lying?""
"He's confused.""
My head turned slowly.
"Don't you dare.""
Damon stopped.
"My father is not confused.""
"He forgets things.""
"Not enough to forget eight hundred dollars.""
Damon's jaw tightened.
Dad reached beneath the blanket.
He pulled out a small black notebook.
He opened it.
Pages were filled with dates and numbers.
"Damon took two hundred on May fourth.""
Damon shook his head.
"No.""
"One hundred fifty on May twenty-first.""
"Grandpa—"
"Three hundred on June ninth.""
"Dad.""
"One hundred fifty on July second.""
Dad closed the notebook.
"Eight hundred total.""
Damon stared at the floor.
I looked at my son.
"Where did the money go?""
"Gas.""
"Eight hundred dollars?""
"Food.""
"You live here.""
"Clothes.""
"Your job pays you.""
"I needed it.""
I stood.
"You needed it, so you stole it from your grandfather?""
"I didn't steal.""
"What do you call taking money without permission?""
Damon said nothing.
Dad suddenly coughed.
I turned.
"Dad?""
He waved me off.
"I'm okay.""
I walked over.
"Do you need anything?""
"No.""
"Water?""
He hesitated.
Then he gave a sad little smile.
"I'll wait.""
That sentence hit me harder than the splash.
I'll wait.
My father was thirsty, sitting right in front of me, and he had learned to wait because asking Damon had become dangerous.
I walked to the kitchen.
I filled a glass.
When I returned, Dad took it with both hands.
"Thank you.""
Damon watched.
His face was unreadable.
Dad drank slowly.
Then he set the glass down.
"There is more.""
I looked at him.
"More what?""
"More in the envelope.""
Damon stood again.
"Grandpa, stop.""
Dad looked at him.
"No.""
Damon's voice cracked.
"You don't know what you're doing.""
"I know exactly what I'm doing.""
"You promised.""
I turned.
"Promised what?""
Damon looked at me.
For the first time since I'd walked through the door, he looked genuinely afraid.
"Nothing.""
Dad's eyes closed.
"Damon.""
"Don't.""
"Damon, you need to tell your father.""
"You don't understand.""
"Then explain it.""
Damon shook his head.
"I can't.""
I held up the envelope.
"Then I'll open it.""
"Don't!""
The shout echoed through the room.
Dad flinched.
Damon immediately lowered his voice.
"Please.""
I stared at him.
"Why?""
He didn't answer.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a folded document.
I pulled it out.
The first thing I saw was my father's name.
Walter James Carter.
Then a date.
Then several paragraphs of legal language.
I scanned the page.
My stomach tightened.
"What is this?""
Dad looked away.
Damon whispered, "Grandpa.""
I looked at my father.
"Is this a power of attorney?""
Dad nodded.
"Why?""
"I was considering giving Damon authority to handle some of my affairs.""
I stared at him.
"After everything?""
"I signed it before.""
"When?""
Dad hesitated.
"Two months ago.""
I looked at Damon.
He wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Why would you give him power over your finances?""
Dad's answer was barely audible.
"Because I thought he cared about me.""
Silence.
Damon's face crumpled for half a second.
Then anger replaced it.
"You did care about me.""
Dad looked at him.
"I did.""
"You still do.""
"I do.""
"Then why are you doing this?""
"Because caring about you doesn't mean pretending you haven't hurt me.""
Damon turned away.
I read further.
The document gave Damon authority to access certain accounts.
My hands went cold.
"Dad.""
"I know.""
"Does he have access already?""
Dad nodded.
"Some.""
I looked at Damon.
"How much?""
He said nothing.
"How much money have you moved?""
"I didn't move anything.""
Dad whispered, "Michael.""
I turned.
"Yes?""
"Check the account.""
I pulled out my phone.
Dad gave me the bank information.
I logged in.
The screen loaded.
One account.
Then another.
My eyes moved across the transactions.
There were withdrawals.
Small at first.
Then larger.
$250.
$400.
$600.
$1,000.
My mouth went dry.
"Dad.""
He didn't look at me.
"How much?""
I couldn't speak.
Damon did.
"Tell him.""
I looked at my son.
"What?""
Damon's voice was almost a whisper.
"Tell him how much.""
I looked back at the screen.
The total stared at me.
*$14,760.*
My father had never had much money.
He'd saved for years.
That money was supposed to cover medical equipment, repairs to the house, and whatever life demanded from a seventy-two-year-old veteran living on a fixed income.
I stood slowly.
"Damon.""
He looked at me.
"What?""
"Did you take fourteen thousand seven hundred and sixty dollars?""
His lips parted.
No sound came.
Dad closed his eyes.
I heard the television announcer say something about a ninth-inning rally.
Nobody in the room cared.
Then Damon whispered something that made my blood run cold.
"I wasn't the only one.""
I stared at him.
"What did you say?""
Damon looked toward the front door.
"I wasn't the only one taking his money.""
Dad opened his eyes.
"Damon...""
My son looked at me.
"There was someone else.""
"Who?""
He swallowed.
"I'll tell you.""
A pause.
"But you have to promise you won't call the police.""
I felt the room go silent again.
"Who is the other person?""
Damon looked at my father.
May you like
And Dad's face suddenly changed.
He looked terrified.