My Wealthy Grandmother Left Me a Single Brass Key and No Inheritance
Margaret sat at her desk, her reading glasses sliding down her nose as she sorted through thick sheets of cream colored paper.
I did not knock, hoping to see what lay across the polished wood before she could clear it.
As the door swung wider, Margaret quickly gathered the papers and slid them into the mahogany desk drawer.
The drawer shut with a dry, hollow scrape, and she turned the small brass key with a swift twist of her wrist.
She tapped her fingers rhythmically on the silver handle of her cane, the metal clicking against her rings.
“You have lost your manners along with your punctuality,” Margaret said, her voice clipped.
“The broth is hot,” I said, setting the tray down on the edge of the desk, far from the locked drawer.
“Leave it,” she said, not looking at the bowl.
I twisted the plain silver band on my finger, my eyes resting on the key she was now sliding into her cardigan pocket.
“Were those letters from the bank?” I asked.
