“And she said when she died, she didn’t want her nephew to get it. She said he only cared about her apartment.”
My heart pounded. “Eric…”
“She asked me to promise something,” he went on. “She said if anything happened to her before she could sort out a will, I should take it. She said I had always been kind to her. That I deserved a break.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
“You’re telling me she just gave you almost $280,000?”
“She said it was close to that,” he admitted. “I didn’t count it back then. I didn’t want to touch it.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. Why you?”
“I asked her the same thing,” he replied. “She told me, ‘Because you never look at me like I’m in the way.'”
The room felt too small.
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“She had a stroke a month later,” he said softly. “Her nephew came. Everything happened fast. I didn’t even know if she had time to change anything legally.”
“And you just… took it?”
He flinched. “No. I left it for weeks. I felt sick about it. But I kept thinking about what she said. She didn’t want him to have it. She was clear.”
“And you never thought to tell me?” I demanded.
He looked up at me, and for the first time since I found the bag, I saw something break in him.
“I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed?” I echoed.
“Yes.” His voice cracked. “Do you know what it feels like to hold that much money after a lifetime of barely scraping by? I kept thinking I didn’t deserve it. That if I told you, you’d look at me differently. Like I had done something wrong.”
“You hid it in a duffel bag in our closet,” I said.
“Of course, I think something is wrong.”
“I didn’t spend a dollar,” he insisted. “Not one. I couldn’t. Every time I thought about using it, I’d see her face. I’d hear her voice.”
“Then why bring it downstairs now?” I asked.
He hesitated.
“Because I finally made a decision,” he said.
I felt my heart thud.
“What decision?”
