Returning to the house felt like entering a crime scene.
Maybe because it was one.
Police escorted us so I could pack.
Sophie refused to go inside.
Dad stayed with her in the car while I walked through the rooms with Marla and an officer.
The living room looked normal.
That was the worst part.
The couch.
The belt gone into evidence.
The family photos still smiling from the mantel.
In the bedroom, I found documents hidden in Ryan’s nightstand.
Credit cards in my name.
Loan applications.
A copy of my signature practiced across a sheet of paper.
My stomach turned.
Marla took photos.
Then we opened the small fire safe in the closet.
Inside were my grandmother’s original letters.
Birthday cards.
Bank notices.
Statements addressed to me.
Ryan had been hiding them for years.
I found one envelope from Grandma Ruth dated a month before she died.
My dearest Emily,
If your father is reading this with you, then the money reached you safely.
I sat on the floor.
It had not reached me.
Ryan had.
Grandma wrote that the inheritance was for my independence.
For Sophie’s needs.
For “any day a woman needs a door that opens outward.”
I pressed the letter to my chest and cried.
Marla knelt beside me.
“We will get as much back as we can.”
I nodded.
But it was not just money.
It was my grandmother’s last protection.
Ryan had stolen her goodbye.
