I put the truck in gear and drove down the long, familiar driveway toward the old farmhouse my grandfather had built, that hadn’t been a home to me in almost ten years.
As I rounded the final bend in the driveway, my heart skipped a beat as the house came into view. The front porch still had Dad’s old rocking chair on it, the large oak still had a tire swing swaying in the wind, and even my father’s truck still sat in the driveway, dusty and clearly untouched for some time.
It was just as I remembered it. Every last detail.
Except, as I got closer, I realized… it wasn’t.
As I killed the engine and really took in the scene, my heart sank. The porch wasn’t just weathered, it was half-collapsed on one side. The windows were boarded up with plywood, some of them hanging at odd angles. And what I’d mistaken for shadows from a distance were actually black scorch marks climbing up one side of the house.
“What the fuck?” I muttered, stepping out of my truck.
The wind whipped dust around my ankles as I approached the house cautiously. Up close, it was even worse. Shingles missing from the roof. Siding torn away in patches. And whenI looked closer at Dad’s truck, I saw that one of the tires was completely flat, the rim rusted to the axle.
I climbed the creaking steps carefully, testing each one before putting my full weight down. The front door was locked, so I fumbled with the set of keys Cohen had given me until I found one that fit. The door swung open with a groan that seemed to echo through the empty house.
The smell hit me first. It was musty, damp, and with an undercurrent of something burnt. I covered my nose with my sleeve as I stepped inside. The living room was mostly intact, though water stains marred the ceiling and mold crept up one wall. Dad’s old recliner sat in the same spot, a layer of dust covering it like a shroud.
“Jesus, Dad,” I whispered, moving deeper into the house.
The kitchen was worse. Half the ceiling had collapsed, leaving insulation and wiring exposed. Rain had clearly been getting in for months, maybe years. The linoleum floor was warped and bubbling in places.
I made my way through the rest of the house, each room revealing new damage. My old bedroom was relatively intact, though the window was broken and birds had made a nest in one corner. Dad’s room was the worst. It looked like the roof had caved in directly above it. His bed was covered in debris and black mold.
Back in the kitchen, I leaned against the counter, careful to avoid the places where it was pulling away from the wall. The land was still valuable… but a million dollars? With a moldy heap of farmhouse that needed to be torn down? I didn’t think so. Cohen had to be out of his mind.
I pulled out my phone to call him, but there was no signal. Of course not. I’d have to drive back to town.
As I headed for the door, something caught my eye on the refrigerator. A piece of paper held in place by a magnetic Texas-shaped bottle opener. I pulled it free, squinting at the faded handwriting.
“Brooks—checking cattle in the north pasture. Feed in the barn if needed.”
My father’s handwriting. I stared at the note, trying to figure out when it had been written. Weeks before he died? Months? The paper was yellowed at the edges.
Brooks. My cousin. According to Cohen, he still lived nearby, still checked on the property occasionally. Though clearly not often enough to notice the house was falling apart. Then again, I guess it wasn’t his problem, right? Why should he care?
I stuffed the note in my pocket and headed outside. The day was fading fast, and I needed to figure out where I was going to sleep tonight. Not here, that was for damn sure.
As I climbed back into my truck, movement caught my eye. A plume of dust in the distance, coming down the long road that connected our property to the county highway. Someone was coming.
I waited, engine idling, as the vehicle approached. It was an old blue pickup, even more beat-up than mine. It pulled up beside me, and the driver cut the engine.
The man who stepped out was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy jaw and dark hair tucked under a worn brown cowboy hat. He squinted at me from beneath the brim, his expression unreadable.
“You lost?” he asked, his voice deep and rough.
I recognized him immediately, though he’d filled out since I’d last seen him. Brooks. My cousin. The one family member who hadn’t completely abandoned me when Dad threw me out.
“Not lost,” I said, stepping out of my truck. “Just disappointed in my inheritance.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as recognition slowly dawned.
“Cash?” he said, like he couldn’t believe it. “Is that really you?”
I nodded, suddenly feeling awkward. What do you say to family you haven’t seen in a decade?
“My god… I barely recognize you,” Brooks said, his face giving nothing away. “When James died, I didn’t… well, I didn’t expect to see you back here.”
“That makes two of us,” I replied. “Got a surprise letter from a lawyer saying the old man left me this...” I gestured at the dilapidated house. “Though he forgot to mention it was a health hazard.”
