Chapter 2 - The Mask Falls Off
The first twenty-four hours were an exercise in tense quiet. I unpacked my things in my childhood bedroom, which had already been partially stripped down into a guest room. My mother had left a strict schedule taped to the refrigerator:
08:00 AM: Give Grandpa 2 pills of anti-anxiety med.
12:00 PM: Heat canned broth.
04:00 PM: Assist with wheelchair movement.
It became clear instantly that my parents had crafted a narrative that Grandpa Theodore was a frail, confused old man teetering on the edge of dementia.
Except, on the evening of the second day, I walked down into the kitchen at midnight to get a glass of water.
The lights were off, but a low hum was coming from the kitchen island. I stopped in the doorway.
Standing by the counter, brewing a fresh pot of dark roast espresso, was Grandpa Theodore. He wasn't using his cane. He wasn't hunched over. He stood upright, looking remarkably agile, pouring boiling water into a mug with a steady hand.
When he turned and saw me standing in the dark, he didn't panic or pretend to stumble. He simply took a sip of his coffee and looked at me.
"You don't need the cane, do you?" I asked quietly.
"Only when the audience expects a performance, Avery," he replied, his voice firm and deep.
"The pills Mom listed..."
"Sedatives," Theodore said flatly, tossing a small yellow bottle into the trash can. "Designed to keep me quiet, docile, and easily managed while your father handled my finances."
My jaw dropped. "What are you talking about?"
"Come with me," he said, turning toward the hallway.
May you like
I followed him down the long corridor toward my father’s locked home office. Theodore pulled a brass key from his cardigan pocket—a key my father thought was safely hidden in his safe—and unlocked the solid mahogany door.
"They think I'm an old fool," Theodore muttered as he flipped on the desk lamp. "They think because my body grew tired, my mind stopped working. Turn on the shredder's light, Avery. We have work to do."
