My Wealthy Grandmother Left Me a Single Brass Key and No Inheritance
I picked up my suitcase, the worn leather handle cold in my palm. I did not look back at Linda as I opened the heavy back door, the autumn wind rustling the yellow leaves across the gravel driveway.
The drive back to my old neighborhood in Columbus took nearly three hours in my rusted sedan. The engine made a low, rattling sound every time I stopped at a red light, and the fuel gauge hovered dangerously close to the red line by the time I pulled up to the brick apartment building. The neighborhood looked grayer than I remembered, the small convenience store on the corner boarded up with sheets of plywood and the concrete sidewalks cracked by the winter frosts.
I found Mr. Landis, the building superintendent, in the dark basement hallway, sorting through a pile of plastic recycling bins. He was a tall, stooped man in his late fifties, his blue overalls stained with grease and a ring of heavy brass keys hanging from his belt loop.
