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I lifted it onto my lap and untied the string. Twenty-two envelopes, one for each month. Photographs of a tape measure in my garage. Of silver in a car trunk. Copies of the papers from that night. And the nurse’s note.
“That’s elder abuse,” Arthur’s voice said, “and it goes to the district attorney on Monday — unless the silver comes back, the key comes back, and you both sign Mr. Katz’s paper accepting the trust. The house is Helen’s. It was always going to be Helen’s. You have until he unlocks the door.”
Roy’s jaw moved, but nothing came out. He looked at his watch, then at the locked door, and left without a word when Mr. Katz finally turned the key.
Sandra sat a long time. Then she set my house key on the copier and whispered, “The silver is in my basement. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
I drove home and hung the key back on the hook by the kitchen door. Then I sat in Arthur’s chair and turned the radio on low.
Housekeeping, he’d said. He was right. It just took twenty-two months.
This is a fictional story. The characters and events are imaginary. The text was written with the assistance of artificial intelligence.
