Chapter 1
My mother pointed at my grandfather's hearing aid during Christmas dinner and laughed.
"He can't hear us anyway."
My father smirked.
I stopped chewing.
Across the table, Grandpa Arthur slowly lowered his fork.
For one terrible second, nobody moved.
Then he looked directly at my mother.
"You really thought this was turned off?"
The smile disappeared from her face.
My father sat up so quickly that his wineglass nearly tipped over.
And I realized our Christmas dinner was about to become something none of us would ever forget.
My name is Maya Bennett.
I was twenty-five years old, and Christmas had always been my favorite holiday.
Until that night.
Our dining room looked beautiful.
Red ribbons decorated the windows.
White candles stood between pine branches.
A roasted turkey filled the center of the table.
The Christmas tree glowed beside the fireplace.
Everything looked like a perfect family celebration.
But perfection was something my mother had always cared about more than happiness.
Diane Bennett sat across from me wearing a dark-green cashmere sweater.
She was fifty-two, elegant, demanding, and convinced that being the loudest person in the room made her the smartest.
My father, Marcus, sat beside her in a navy sweater.
He was forty-six and worked as the financial manager of Grandpa's property company.
Grandpa Arthur sat at the head of the table.
Seventy-eight years old.
Silver hair.
A burgundy cardigan.
A small hearing aid tucked behind his right ear.
He looked older than he had the previous Christmas.
But his eyes were still sharp.
That was something Mom seemed determined to forget.
The trouble began when Grandpa asked Marcus about a missing property statement.
"Did you bring those rental reports I requested?"
Dad sighed.
"Arthur, it's Christmas."
Grandpa looked at him.
"I know what day it is."
"Then can we discuss business another time?"
Grandpa's expression hardened.
"I've been asking for those reports since October."
Mom reached for her wineglass.
"Maybe because Marcus has more important things to do than explain every penny to you."
I looked at her.
"Mom."
She waved me away.
"Oh, relax, Maya."
Grandpa continued eating.
Mom glanced toward his hearing aid.
Then leaned toward Dad.
"He probably can't even follow this conversation."
Dad chuckled.
I felt my stomach tighten.
"That's rude."
Mom ignored me.
She lowered her voice.
"Once we get control of those accounts, we won't have to answer his questions anymore."
I froze.
Dad looked toward Grandpa.
Then whispered, "Not here."
Mom laughed.
"He can't hear us anyway."
That's when Grandpa stopped eating.
He slowly placed his fork beside the plate.
Then looked directly at her.
"You really thought this was turned off?"
Mom's face went pale.
Dad straightened.
"Pop?"
Grandpa touched his hearing aid.
"This little thing works perfectly well when someone bothers to charge it."
I pressed my lips together.
I almost smiled.
But Grandpa wasn't smiling.
He looked hurt.
Deeply hurt.
"I heard every word you said about me."
Mom laughed nervously.
"Arthur, we were joking."
Grandpa raised one hand.
She stopped.
"And I heard what you said about my money."
My father looked down.
I felt cold.
For months, I'd noticed little things.
Grandpa asking about bills that should have been paid.
Dad getting irritated whenever Grandpa visited the office.
Mom making comments about how difficult it was to care for an aging parent.
But I'd never imagined they were discussing taking control of his money.
Grandpa leaned back.
"Tell me, Diane. Which part was funny?"
Mom swallowed.
"You're misunderstanding us."
He shook his head.
"No."
Then he reached inside his cardigan.
He pulled out a small dark-green notebook.
I'd seen it before.
Grandpa carried it everywhere.
He wrote grocery lists in it.
Phone numbers.
Birthdays.
Sometimes little reminders about Christmas presents.
I always thought it was adorable.
Now he slammed it onto the dining table.
The glasses jumped.
I gasped.
Dad stared.
Grandpa opened the notebook.
The pages were filled with names.
Dates.
Dollar amounts.
Some figures were circled.
Others were underlined twice.
And several names had thick black lines drawn through them.
I looked closer.
One was my father's.
Another was my mother's.
Grandpa touched the page.
"Good."
His voice was quiet.
"Because I made some changes."
Mom leaned forward.
"What changes?"
He turned a page.
Then pointed toward the crossed-out names.
"My will."
Dad's face drained of color.
"Pop, let's not be dramatic."
Grandpa looked at him.
"You've had plenty of opportunities to be honest with me."
Dad swallowed.
"What are you talking about?"
Grandpa opened the notebook farther.
"Seven thousand dollars transferred in March."
My stomach tightened.
"Twenty-two thousand in June."
He turned another page.
"Forty-eight thousand in September."
Mom's hand began shaking.
Grandpa looked directly at her.
"And another thirty-five thousand last week."
I stared at the figures.
"Grandpa, what is that?"
He looked at me.
His expression softened.
"Money that disappeared from accounts I trusted your parents to help manage."
I felt sick.
Dad laughed sharply.
"Those were legitimate business expenses."
Grandpa nodded.
"Then you won't mind explaining them."
Mom leaned forward.
"Arthur, you don't understand how complicated the finances have become."
Grandpa stared at her.
"Complicated?"
His voice hardened.
"I built that company before either of you knew what a mortgage was."
Nobody spoke.
He turned another page.
"And I'm not finished yet."
I looked at Dad.
He was staring at the notebook.
Not angry anymore.
Afraid.
Mom reached across the table.
"Give me that."
Grandpa pulled it away.
"Don't touch it."
She froze.
Then he looked at me.
"Maya, sweetheart, I need you to know something."
My heart started pounding.
"What?"
He opened the notebook to a page marked with a red ribbon.
There was my name.
MAYA BENNETT.
Beneath it were three account numbers.
And a handwritten note.
Protect her inheritance before they discover what I've done.
I stared.
"My inheritance?"
Grandpa nodded slowly.
Then he said something that made my mother nearly drop her wineglass.
"The money isn't the only thing your parents have been lying about."
Dad stood.
"That's enough!"
Grandpa didn't flinch.
He looked up at his son.
"Sit down, Marcus."
Dad remained standing.
Grandpa's voice became colder.
"I know what you did with the documents in my study."
My mother's chair scraped against the floor.
She looked toward the hallway.
For the first time, I saw fear in her eyes.
Real fear.
Grandpa closed the notebook.
Then looked at me.
"Maya, after dinner, I need to show you something."
I swallowed.
"What is it?"
His eyes filled.
"Something your grandmother left behind."
I stopped breathing.
May you like
Grandma Evelyn had been dead for six years.
And whatever she had left behind was clearly something my parents had spent those six years trying to keep from me.
