“This is some kind of joke?”
“No.”
Paul’s expression didn’t change.
“She told me that if you ever asked about the inheritance immediately after her death, I was to give you the box. If you didn’t ask, I was supposed to wait thirty days.”
“Why?”
“Because she wanted to know whether you would.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
I looked down at the box again.
For three years, I had imagined this moment differently.
I had imagined Paul shaking my hand and congratulating me. I had imagined documents, bank statements, property deeds, maybe even keys.
Instead, I was sitting in a lawyer’s office staring at a cardboard box that Florence had apparently prepared long before she died.
I lifted the lid.
The first thing I saw was a photograph.
It was a picture of me.
I recognized the clothes immediately.
It had been taken the first week I started visiting Florence.
I was standing beside her front door, smiling at the camera.
I picked it up.
“Where did she get this?”
Paul remained silent.
Under the photograph was another one.
Then another.
Then another.
Photographs of me.
Me carrying groceries into her house.
Me helping her into a restaurant.
Me sitting beside her wheelchair.
Me standing in her kitchen.
Me kissing her cheek.
Me holding her hand.
Me sleeping on the couch.
I felt my face become hot.
“This is ridiculous.”
I threw the photographs back into the box.
“She was spying on me?”
“She was observing you,” Paul said.
“That’s the same thing.”
“No. Not to Florence.”
I looked at him sharply.
“What does that mean?”
Paul folded his hands on the desk.
“It means she wanted to know who you really were.”
I didn’t like the direction this conversation was going.
I reached into the box again.
Beneath the photographs was a thick envelope.
My name was written across it.
This time, beneath my name were four words.
You finally got what you wanted.
My fingers went numb.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Daniel,
If you’re reading this, then I’m gone.
And if Paul has followed my instructions correctly, you’ve already asked about the money.
I stopped breathing.
The letter continued.
I know why you married me.
I stared at those words until they blurred.
“No…”
Paul watched me without saying anything.
I continued reading.
You think you were clever.
You think you hid it well.
You think I never noticed the way you looked at my house the first day you came inside.
You think I didn’t notice how quickly you learned the value of everything I owned.
The house.
The investments.
The accounts.
The jewelry.
The land.
You noticed all of it.
And I noticed you noticing.
My hands began to shake.
I looked up at Paul.
“You knew?”
“I knew what Florence told me.”
“What did she tell you?”
Paul didn’t answer.
I looked back at the letter.
There was more.
But I need you to understand something before you continue.
I wasn’t angry with you.
That was the sentence that frightened me most.
I had expected accusations.
Hatred.
Perhaps even humiliation.
Instead, Florence had written that she wasn’t angry.
I continued.
You were desperate.
I knew about your father.
I knew about the stroke.
I knew your family was struggling.
I knew you had debts.
And I knew that when you first saw my house, you didn’t see me.
You saw a way out.
I closed my eyes.
A memory came rushing back.
That first afternoon.
Florence had been sitting in her living room while I stood near the window pretending to admire the garden.
But I wasn’t looking at the garden.
I had been looking at the house.
At the paintings.
At the furniture.
At the enormous staircase.
At everything I imagined could someday be mine.
I opened my eyes.
The letter continued.
So I decided to give you exactly what you wanted.
But not in the way you expected.
I felt my heart pounding.
I looked at Paul.
“What does that mean?”
He pointed toward the bottom of the box.
“There is more.”
I reached inside.
Under the letter was a small brass key.
And beneath it was another envelope.
This one was thicker.
Across the front Florence had written:
For Daniel, when he discovers the truth.
I stared at it.
“What truth?”
Paul leaned back.
“That,” he said quietly, “is what you’re about to find out.”
I opened the second envelope.
Inside was a bank statement.
Then another.
And another.
I scanned the numbers.
My mouth went dry.
The accounts I had spent years imagining were there.
But the balances were nothing like what I expected.
Some were almost empty.
Others had been closed.
I turned the pages faster.
“What happened?”
Paul finally spoke.
“Florence had been moving her money for years.”
“To where?”
He looked at the brass key.
“You’ll have to find that out yourself.”
I picked up the key.
There was a tiny number engraved on it.
17.
“What’s this?”
Paul stood.
“There’s one more thing Florence told me to say.”
“What?”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“She said you would probably hate her after reading everything.”
I swallowed.
“And?”
“She said that was okay.”
He walked to the door.
Then stopped.
“She also said you would eventually understand why she had to do it.”
“Why she had to do what?”
Paul turned around.
“Test you.”
The door closed behind him.
I sat alone in the office.
For several minutes, I couldn’t move.
Then I looked down at the key.
Number seventeen.
I knew exactly where it belonged.
Florence’s house had seventeen rooms.