And a folded note.
I opened it.
Mom’s handwriting.
Bethie —
If you’re reading this, then I’m gone and you came for the soup just like I knew you would.
This key opens the box beneath the freezer.
Vanessa knows everything.
Don’t be angry with her. I asked her to help me.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.
Please be gentle with your brother.
He is sick.
He doesn’t understand how sick he is.
But do not give him the box.
I love you.
Eat the soup.
It’s good for you.
— Mom
I read it again.
Then again.
Vanessa was crying.
We went back downstairs.
I pried open the false bottom.
Beneath it sat a heavy gray metal cash box wrapped in plastic.
We carried it upstairs.
The brass key fit perfectly.
Inside were stacks of cash.
Twenties.
Hundreds.
Each bundle labeled in Mom’s handwriting.
