He looked down at the tracker.
“So when I bought you the SUV, I installed GPS.”
Mom laughed bitterly.
“You set us up.”
“No.”
Grandpa’s gaze remained steady.
“I protected my granddaughter’s property. **You chose what to do next.**”
My eyes burned.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the trust?”
“Your grandmother asked me not to until your twenty-fifth birthday.”
“Why?”
Grandpa hesitated.
And I immediately knew there was more.
Something worse.
“There’s another document,” he said.
Mom went completely still.
Grandpa reached into the envelope.
He pulled out a handwritten letter.
The paper was yellowed around the edges.
My name was written across the front.
Amelia.
In Grandma’s handwriting.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
My grandmother had died when I was twelve.
I remembered her perfume.
Her garden.
The peppermint candies in her purse.
How she used to brush my hair and tell me I had “old eyes.”
