My Wealthy Grandmother Left Me a Single Brass Key and No Inheritance
I turned the knob slowly, the latch releasing with a tiny click that made me hold my breath.
Inside, the room was cold, the desk sitting like a dark block in the center of the shadows.
I walked over to the mahogany writing desk and reached out to touch the polished wood.
My fingers brushed the edge of the locked drawer.
I stared at the locked mahogany desk drawer.
The next day at one o’clock, I carried the heavy ceramic platter of roasted chicken into the dining room.
Margaret sat at the head of the long cherry wood table, her spine perfectly straight, her fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic pattern on the silver handle of her cane.
I set the dish down on the linen mat, my shoulder blades slumping slightly from the weight.
“A woman of your age should not slouch like a sack of flour, Emily,” she said, her voice dry and clipped.
“I am twenty-eight, Grandmother,” I said, clearing my throat before I spoke.
