Two days later, the bike showed up on the front porch. It was the first and only time I didn’t lock it up, and the last time I ever went to that specialty candy shop.

I pull into Grammy Bee’s driveway. My driveway. The thought is intrusive and unwelcome. I push it aside, determined not to let sadness override all the other emotions that come with being here. Grammy Bee wouldn’t want me to fixate on her absence. She would want me to find the joy in being here again. Even without her.

The gravel pops and crunches under my tires as I pull up next to her ancient truck, still parked in the driveway. I shift into park and take in the sight before me. It’s been six months since I’ve been here. And even when I came to Grammy’s funeral, I avoided coming here specifically. I wasn’t in the right place emotionally to deal with the cottage. I didn’t want to face the loss more than necessary. I’m finally ready to properly say goodbye to her.

I smile as I take in the modest three-bedroom cottage. Old and run down, but so full of love and memories. I open the door and breathe in the fresh sweet air. A combination of pine, sunshine, and lake water. The gravel crunches beneath my running shoes—I know better than to wear anything other than casual footwear when I’m here, which, of course, is part of the allure. I shed city life like a stuffy suit and slide into the comfort of worn T-shirts and age-softened shorts.

The deck boards creek under my feet. They’re in worse shape than I remember and definitely need to be fixed. Or replaced entirely. I slide the key into the lock and have to do the jiggle and turn thing a few times before it finally gives.

The Dillion dude who’s been communicating with me via email about Grammy’s place is supposed to come by every week and check on things, but based on how hard the lock is to turn, I’m not sure that’s been happening. Why did he promise he’d take care of it if he had no intention of doing so? Why Grammy picked him as executor is beyond me; he seems a bit irresponsible. He couldn’t even bother to attend the funeral.

I take a deep breath and brace myself for the visual onslaught I’m about to face. Grammy Bee loved her trinkets, and patterns, and wallpaper. I always loved that about Grammy Bee’s cottage—the fact that nothing ever changed. Being here was reliable and predictable. Comfortable and homey. I needed that when I was a teenager, maybe more than I realized.

I push the door open with a creak and step inside, breathing in the familiar scents. Despite the place having been vacant for six months, it still smells almost exactly as I remember it. The air is stale, but the faint smell of Grammy Bee’s homemade potpourri, a combination of cloves, cinnamon, and citrus, still hangs in the air. Nothing inside has changed in the past twenty-five years. It’s like being stuck inside a time warp of floral patterns and teacup wallpaper.

I realize how much I need this. To be here. To grieve her properly and remind myself why this place is so special and needs my attention.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, breaking the spell. I sigh, annoyed by the interruption. I’ve taken the week off so I can come here and deal with the cottage and finally put the will into probate. Something I should have done months ago. I fish my phone out of my pocket, intending to send the call to voice mail, but pause when Dad flashes across the screen.

There are few people in the world whose calls I don’t avoid. My father, while admittedly not the best at the job of parenting, is still my father and the only parent I have left, so I generally don’t ignore his calls. I answer and put the phone on speaker. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

“Donovan, hello, are you still in Chicago?”

Something in his tone unsettles me. “No, I’m already in Pearl Lake. Remember, I’m here to settle the estate?”

“Yes. Of course I remember. We have an issue.”

“An issue?” I cross over to the kitchen and turn on the tap. The water sputters for a few seconds before the pump kicks on. “What kind of issue?”

He clears his throat. “With Adelaide’s Love.”

My mother, Adelaide, died when I was eight years old during surgery to have her tubes tied—and a tummy tuck and a breast lift to restore her body after three pregnancies, per my father’s suggestion—but she had a rare and unexpected reaction to the anesthesia and died of a heart attack. One morning she was there kissing me goodbye, telling me she’d see me after school, and the next, she was gone. The loss threw our family into a state of upheaval.

But when I was in my late teens, I asked if we could create a memorial foundation for Mom, and my dad, of course, said yes. Don’t let that fool you, though. I’m pretty sure my dad agreed to it for an opportunity to rub elbows with the Chicago elite and paint the picture of a devoted husband who wanted his wife’s legacy to live on. Besides attending galas and events in the name of the foundation, I don’t think my father has ever made it much of a priority. But my mother always liked working with children, so I helped create the foundation to provide scholarships to disadvantaged children for their education.

I turn the faucet off and stop moving. “What about it?”

“There’s money missing.”

I sincerely hope my dad isn’t starting to lose his faculties. My grandfather was sound of mind all the way until the end. “I transferred funds last week for the sports scholarship. Right after the board meeting.” For the past ten years I’ve sat on the board of directors, along with my father and siblings, and it has grown into a decent-size fund. While my family’s role is more in name only, I’m actively involved in the management of the fund.

“That’s not the money I’m referring to. If you’ve been having financial troubles, you should have come to me, Van. We could have found a better way to deal with it. Gotten you a loan.”

“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” I don’t have financial issues. I never want to be in the position my father is—always spending money he doesn’t have. It’s gone before it even has a chance to hit his bank account.

“Three million dollars is missing from your mother’s foundation.”

“That’s not possible. The check was for five hundred thousand.” I run a hand through my hair, panic starting to take hold. “This has to be some kind of mistake.”

“I’m afraid it’s not. The board called a meeting this morning after reviewing the books. Millions are missing, and everything is pointing at you, son.”

I drop onto the ancient, faded floral sofa. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would I steal from my own mother’s memorial foundation?”

“Are you telling me you didn’t take it?”

“How can you even ask that? Of course I didn’t take it!” My voice rises, right along with my incredulity.

“I’m sorry, Van, but your signature is on all the documents, and you’re one of the few people with access to the accounts.”

“Well, I didn’t steal three fucking million dollars from my own mother’s memorial fund!”

“Okay. I trust that you’re being honest.” I can hear my dad’s pen tapping on the desk.

“Should I come back to Chicago?”

“No, no. I think it’s probably better you stay put for now. I’m going to do what I can, but you don’t want to be in Chicago if the media gets wind of this.”