Reading Frank’s Letter
I slid into the stiff leather chair opposite Mr. Delgado, the hum of the fluorescent lights buzzing low.
The metal box sat between us, a weighty promise. Mr. Delgado cleared his throat and said, “The letter’s under the lid. He asked you to read it alone.”
I lifted the lid, feeling the cold brass lock give way under my fingers. The paper whispered as I peeled it from the tape.
Frank’s looping script stared back at me, his hand unmistakable.
“Patricia, I know how Brad and Stephanie whisper behind my back. They think you’re after the house. I’ve kept something for you, just for you—something they’ll never see. Open the box when you’re alone. Don’t let them near it.”
A knot tightened in my throat. He’d known their contempt, their accusations that I was a gold‑digger.
I could hear Brad’s smug “She’s only after the house,” echoing in my mind, and Stephanie’s cold stare from that first Thanksgiving.
