Chapter 7 - The Picture Frame
We pulled into my driveway at 10:45 p.m.
The small brick ranch was dark. Inside, everything smelled like cedar, dry wool, and old paper.
I led Julian into the living room. Hanging above the small brick fireplace was a large wooden frame holding a black-and-white portrait of Walt taken back in 1995. He was wearing his blue flannel shirt, sitting on a wooden bench, smiling softly at the camera.
I stepped up to the hearth, reached up with trembling hands, and took the frame down from the wall.
Julian stood right behind me, his breathing shallow.
I turned the frame over. The back was covered in old paper backing, held together by small rusted metal tabs. I pulled a small butter knife from the kitchen drawer and carefully peeled back the dry paper.
There, taped to the back of the solid oak backing, was a flat silver key with the numbers 44-09-12 stamped into the metal. Beside it was a small folded piece of lined notebook paper.
I took the paper and unfolded it. It was Walt’s handwriting.
Evie,If you are reading this, I am gone, and the truth has finally come out. I was a coward, Evie. Arthur took Richard’s life away, and I let him buy my silence with Ethan’s tuition because I was scared of leaving you with nothing. The real ledgers are in Safety Deposit Box 4409 at First Federal on Fayetteville Street. Do what is right. Forgive me.Love, Walt.
I pressed the note to my chest, closing my eyes as silent tears fell onto the dusty carpet.
"He wasn't a coward," I whispered to the empty room. "He was just a father trying to protect his boy."
Julian reached out slowly. His fingers touched the edge of the silver key, but he didn't pull it away. He looked at the handwritten note in my hands, his sharp expression softening for the very first time.
"My father always said Walt was the kindest man he ever met," Julian said quietly, his voice dropping its harsh edge. "He never blamed Walt. He only blamed Arthur."
Suddenly, the front door behind us slammed open with a violent crack.
Cold air rushed into the living room.
May you like
Standing in the doorway, drenched in sweat, his expensive silk tie torn open at the collar, was Arthur. Behind him, standing in the shadows of the porch, was a heavy-set man in a dark leather jacket holding an iron crowbar.
"Hand over the key, Evelyn," Arthur panted, stepping into my house, his eyes wild and desperate. "Hand it over right now."
