“Proof they’re criminals.”
She said it as plainly as if she were giving him the weather.
“Proof they steal from people. Proof they probably stole from Grandpa Douglas and Grandma Hazel before they died.”
She paused.
“Your parents.”
The sleet seemed to fade away. Brendan remembered his father’s face the day they lost the house, the house Douglas Kenny had built with his own hands. The same house that now belonged to Gilbert Properties, LLC. He remembered the shame in his mother Hazel’s eyes when they moved into the subsidized apartment where she died three years later.
“They said it was bad investments,” Brendan said softly. “That Dad made poor choices.”
“Grandpa Willard told me last month that your grandfather was a fool who didn’t understand business.”
Lucy’s voice stayed flat, but her hands gripped the backpack straps until her knuckles went white.
“But I found the papers. Dad, they tricked him. They convinced him to sign loans with impossible terms, then took everything when he couldn’t pay.”
Brendan stood and pulled Lucy against him. She was so small, so thin, and she had been carrying this alone.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because you always get this look when they’re around. Like you’re trying to keep something locked inside.”
She hesitated. For the first time, real emotion cracked through.
“I thought maybe if I had proof, you could finally stop pretending.”
God. She was twelve years old and already saw through every mask he wore.
The front door opened. Rosa stood silhouetted in the warm light, her face pinched with irritation.
“Brendan, you’re back. Good. Can you please talk to your daughter about respect? My mother—”
“Get inside.”
His voice was quiet. Dangerous.
Rosa blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I said get inside now. Tell your parents we need to talk.”
Something in his tone made Rosa step back.
Behind her, Margaret Gilbert appeared, silver hair perfectly coiffed, her expression fixed in its usual smug superiority.
“Brendan, if you’re going to undermine our discipline—”
“Inside. All of you. Living room. Two minutes.”
He picked up Lucy’s backpack, kept one hand on her shoulder, and looked directly at Margaret.
“And call Willard. He’ll want to be here for this conversation.”
He guided Lucy past them and into the house, ignoring Rosa’s protests and Margaret’s sharp intake of breath. The warmth inside was almost painful after the cold rain, but Brendan barely noticed. He was too busy cataloging every detail of the Gilbert family home, this monument to stolen wealth and cruelty disguised as respectability.
The living room was exactly as he remembered. Expensive furniture. Carefully curated art. Photographs of Rosa and her sister Andrea displayed prominently. None of Lucy. None of him. As if they were temporary inconveniences in the Gilbert family narrative.
Willard Gilbert emerged from his study, tall and silver-haired like his wife, with the same pale, cold eyes.
“What’s this about, Brendan? We’re in the middle of—”
“Sit down.”
Brendan set the backpack on the coffee table.
“All of you. Sit.”
They sat, exchanging glances. Rosa looked confused and nervous. Margaret looked offended. Willard’s expression was harder to read, but Brendan caught the flicker of calculation in his eyes.
“Lucy,” Brendan said, drawing his daughter close. “Tell them what you told me.”
Lucy reached into the backpack and pulled out the first folder.
“I know Grandma’s safe combination. I’ve known it for months. Today, while you were all having cocktails and talking about Dad like he wasn’t good enough for this family, I went upstairs and took everything from your safe.”
The color drained from Margaret’s face. Willard leaned forward, jaw tight.
“That’s theft,” Margaret snapped, her voice turning shrill. “She’s a thief. Just like—”
