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Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bryce
She was in it now. I’d brought Marjorie Steel into the ugliness of my life. I’d broken my promise to Joe. I’d told our secret, and he hadn’t even told his own wife.
I hoped I hadn’t just ended a lifetime friendship. Joe meant so much to me, and now that I was with his sister, we might be family someday.
Wow. Family. I could marry this woman. Have more kids with her, brothers and sisters for Henry.
I was getting ahead of myself, but the thought filled me with something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Joy.
“We can go,” she said. “I understand. This place kind of gives me the creeps.”
I grabbed my jeans and began to dress, and she followed suit.
“What do you want to do with the stuff we found under the floor?”
“Put it in the trunk of my car for now.” The trunk of the car that had been my father’s. Why hadn’t I gotten rid of it yet? I thought about it every time I saw the damned thing, yet I still hadn’t dumped it. It was a cherried-out Mustang. I could easily sell it and buy my own cherried-out Mustang if I wanted to. Better yet, I could start a college fund for my son and buy a Prius.
Which reminded me that I started my new position at the Steel Corporation in the morning.
Once we were dressed, we headed to the bedroom. “Don’t touch the guns,” I warned Marjorie. “Use a tissue or something. In fact, don’t touch them at all. I’ll take care of them.”
She nodded, grabbed the manila folders, and pointed to the metal box. “I wonder what’s in there.”
“It’s a gun case. Probably more guns.”
“Okay to touch the box?”
“No one’s going to arrest you because your prints are on a box,” I said.
She smiled and grabbed the handle— “Oh!” The box fell open, and its contents spilled to the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“No worries. Let’s have a look.”
No more guns. I gaped at the contents spread on the area rug that had hidden the floorboards.
“Jewelry?” Marjorie gasped.
Jewelry. A lot of it. Pearls and rubies and diamonds. I had no idea what the quality was or what any of it was worth.
My father had hidden fine jewelry in a gun case.
Only Tom Simpson.
“I thought you said it was locked,” she said.
“I thought it was.” I inspected the metal. “It’s rusted out here. It just gave way.”
“Whose is this?”
“It must have belonged to my father.”
“Which means it now belongs to your mother. And you.”
“Not necessarily. Not if it was bought with dirty money. Then it belongs to the Feds.”
