Chapter 1: The Cold Farewell
The rain in Ohio didn’t cleanse anything; it just made the mud stick to your shoes. I stood by the open grave, my hands deep in the pockets of my trench coat, watching the cheap pine casket being lowered into the ground. There were only four of us there. Me, my sister Sarah, the priest, and a funeral director who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
"It’s a shame," the priest mumbled, tossing a token handful of dirt onto the wood. "She was a… quiet woman."
Quiet. That was one word for her. I had others. Cold. Stingy. Mean.
Martha had been my stepmother for thirty years. She came into our lives six months after my biological mother, Alice, died of a sudden heart attack. My father brought Martha home like he was bringing home a new appliance. She didn’t hug us. She didn’t bake cookies. She cooked bland food, worked double shifts at a diner, and hoarded every penny my father made.
"Are you okay, Rob?" Sarah whispered, touching my arm. She was crying, because Sarah cried at everything, even commercials.
"I’m fine," I said, and I meant it. I didn’t feel sad. I felt relieved. The "Ice Queen" was gone. We could finally sell the old house, split the meager inheritance, and close the book on a miserable chapter of our lives.
We drove back to the family home in silence. The house was exactly as I remembered it: dim, smelling of stale coffee and lemon polish, and filled with silence. It was a two-story colonial that had seen better days. The paint was peeling, and the carpets were worn thin.
"Let’s just get the attic done," I told Sarah, loosening my tie. "I want to get the 'For Sale' sign up by Monday."
The attic was sweltering. Dust motes danced in the single beam of light cutting through the grime on the small window. We spent an hour tossing boxes of old clothes into black trash bags. Martha hadn’t kept much—just junk. No family photos, no heirlooms. Just like her heart, the attic was mostly empty.
I was dragging a heavy box of old curtains toward the stairs when the toe of my boot caught on something. I stumbled, dropping the box. A floorboard near the chimney had popped up.
"Careful," Sarah said, coughing in the dust.
I knelt down to fix the wood, but something glinted in the darkness beneath the floor. It wasn’t just a loose board; it was a hiding spot. I reached in, my fingers brushing against cold, rusted metal. I pulled hard, and a heavy, gray lockbox slid out across the insulation.
I went to shake the box, expecting it to be empty, but something heavy shifted inside with a dull thud. It was locked tight, but scratched into the metal lid were three words that made my blood run cold: "For The Children."
