I’m not particularly hungry anymore, but I make myself two turkey-and-cheese sandwiches with the horrible fake cheese my parents would never buy when I was a kid that I secretly loved.

Grammy Bee always had it in the house because it made the best grilled cheese sandwiches. And she bought the Velveeta kind, in block form, which she said was better than the individually wrapped slices.

After lunch I step out onto the new front porch that has yet to be stained and head to the garage. I’m saving the staining for the evening, since it’s quiet and won’t get me yelled at by my neighbor. Although, knowing her, I’m sure she’ll find something to yell at me for. I smile just thinking about her. I don’t know what my fascination with her is, other than her being a welcome distraction from my life.

Over the past few days, I’ve managed to make some headway on cleaning out the garage, which is saying something, since it was practically stuffed full of Grammy’s treasures and Grampy’s old tools. It’s a big space, and I’d like it to have a function other than being a hoarder’s dream.

I’ve looked into some of the building bylaws, and it’s pretty tough to get permits for new structures, so I’m thinking my best bet is to turn it into a second living space, once I’ve cleaned out all the junk. With some modifications, it should be big enough for a one-bedroom loft above the garage space, which it was something Grammy Bee used to talk about but never had the chance to do.

It’s also an excuse not to tackle the actual cottage, which is daunting. Grammy Bee’s house is the only place I’ve ever been sentimental about. It’s filled with great memories from my childhood, and I’m not ready to sift through those yet.

I spend the afternoon dragging stuff into the driveway and separating it into piles. There are three: toss, keep, and sell. The toss pile is the biggest, which isn’t a surprise. The garage is basically full of all the things no one wanted in the house anymore but couldn’t be bothered to take to the dump. Or maybe Grammy Bee thought it would be useful to someone. Regardless, it makes for a lot of full black bags.

I’ve started tossing the bags into the bed of Grammy’s ancient truck—which I’m stunned still runs, considering it’s from the sixties and is rusted out in places—when I get a call from my buddy. We went to college together and have stayed close ever since. I’ve talked to him a couple of times since I arrived in Pearl Lake. He’s aware of the dumpster dive my life has done.

“Hey, Frankie, how’s it going?” I put him on speakerphone and heft another bag into the truck.

“Good, good. How’s the backwoods treating you? You doing okay, man?” The clickety-clack of his keyboard comes through the phone.

I glance to the right, where Dillion’s trailer is barely visible beyond the trees. Is my life a mess? Sure. But at least I’m not in Chicago in the direct line of fire. According to my dad, the media is all over the story, so staying here is better than being there. “As well as can be expected.”

“That’s fair, all things considered. Getting day drunk would be completely within reason.”

I laugh, although I’m not sure he’s joking. “Reliving my college days, while fun, wouldn’t be particularly good for my brain cells.” I’m also not sure I can afford to pick up a bad habit at the moment. “Everything okay with you?” I toss another bag into the back of the truck, and it lands with a metallic thunk.

“Yeah. Just wanted to check in on you. You busy with something? Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not a bad time. Trying to keep myself occupied, you know? I’m cleaning out the garage, getting rid of stuff that should have been tossed a couple of decades ago.”

“Productive is always a good thing.” There’s a brief pause in the typing. “Don’t want to let the small-town work ethic rub off on you, otherwise you might get stuck at the bottom of the ladder. Gets tough to climb your way back up.”

“I don’t know that the work ethic around here is all that low.”

“You know what I mean. Small-town life equates to small aspirations. You were on your way to the top. You can get back there.”

“Is this a good news call, then?” Frankie is a well-known recruiter in Chicago, always looking for the newest hot commodity and then placing them in high-performing companies. He’s excellent at what he does and was the one who hooked me up with my previous employer. I’ve only been out of a job for a short time, but I’m already getting antsy about not having a steady income. I want to get the ball rolling and start applying for new jobs, but with this scandal hanging over my head, I’m not so sure it’s going to be easy to convince anyone to hire me.

Frankie sighs, and I take that as a bad sign. “I’m going to be real straight with you, Van. The situation is fresh, and the media is just getting started, from what I can see. No one wants to touch you right now. It’d help if you could clear your name. People need some distance, time for a new scandal to brew, before they can forget about this one.”

I bristle at his tone. I hate that I’m in this position, and that my character and my integrity have been called into question, especially by my friends. “You believe me when I tell you I didn’t take the money, right?”

“Yeah, man, of course. I mean, it doesn’t make sense for you to go stealing the money from the foundation you helped set up. Unless you’ve developed some kind of gambling problem.”

“I don’t have a gambling problem.”

“That was a joke. You won’t even chip in for lottery tickets, like you’re going to blow your money on slots. I think you need to look at the bright side.”

“You mean the fact that I’m not in prison for stealing money from my mom’s own foundation and I don’t have some bearded, tattooed cellmate who wants to make me his pet? That kind of bright side?” I’m grateful that my dad hired a lawyer to help me manage this entire situation. Jail time for something I didn’t do would be a real kick in the teeth.

“Well, yeah, kind of. I’m just saying, it could be worse, Van. Didn’t you say that they’re not taking you to court, or pressing charges?”

Not yet, anyway, and hopefully not at all. “Yeah, I’m just accused of stealing money I didn’t take. I lost my job, and now I’m being told I should stay where I am because of the media garbage.” And who knows how long that’s going to go on for. It’s like my life was hijacked. In one day everything that was stable is now up in the air.

“You’re a genius at what you do, Van. You have classic taste in architecture, with a modern, contemporary outlook. But the jobs you work on are for big clients, and we’re talking a lot of money. It’s an asset and a liability, you know? You’re too fucking smart for your own good, and that means people don’t know if they should trust you enough to put so much money into what you’re suggesting. They’re worried you’ll be able to pull one over on them too.”

“I didn’t pull one over on anyone, though. And I don’t see how my job and what happened with the foundation are even connected. I’m good with numbers, but I’m not that good. According to what my dad told me, someone has been skimming money for the past five years without getting caught. I honestly wouldn’t even know how to do that, even if I wanted to.” The money has been going missing for years: small amounts that individually would never be missed, but over time they added up to millions in lost donations.