“And nobody told me? Nobody asked permission so I could see him? Not even when he was dy?”
Grace gave a cold smile. “Michael, you were in prison for stealing from your own father.
Do you really think he wanted you at his funeral?” I tightened my grip on my backpack straps.
“I never stole anything from him.” “That’s what you said at your trial.
Look where that got you.” I tried to look past her. The living room wasn’t the same anymore.
The family photos were gone. My mother’s portrait had disappeared, along with the display cabinet holding my father’s old construction company awards.
The walls had been painted an elegant gray. The furniture was new, costly, cold.
Even the house smelled different—like a luxury hotel with no soul. “Let me in,” I pleaded.
“I just want to see his room.” “His room doesn’t exist anymore. I remodeled everything.”
Then Ian appeared at the top of the staircase. My stepbrother walked down slowly, wearing a crooked grin.
Before I went to prison, the last thing I knew about him was that he was drowning in gambling debts, maxed-out credit cards, and loans no respectable lender would touch.
Now he wore an expensive watch, designer clothes, and a confidence that made me s!
ck. “Well, look who’s back,” he sneered. “The thief came to collect his inheritance.”
“I came for my father,” I replied. “Your father d! ed believing you were a disgrace.”
The words hit me square in the chest, but I didn’t move. Grace lifted her phone.
