Found Money - James Grippando [37]
He grabbed a stack of bills and held it over the fire. His brain commanded him to drop it, but the hand wouldn’t listen. Or maybe it was the heart. He just couldn’t.
His eyes closed in shame and anguish. He’d never felt the power of money. He’d never felt so weak.
A sudden noise roused him from his thoughts. It had come from outside. He jumped up from his knees and hurried to the window. In the darkness, he saw Brent’s Buick coming up the driveway.
He’s back.
Ryan turned away in panic. The money. He had to hide the money. He grabbed the suitcase and paused for a split second, searching in his mind for a good place to stash it. He heard a car door slam. No time to spare. He stuffed it under the couch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fire still burning. The money should have gone with it—which gave him an idea. He grabbed the newspaper from the couch and pitched it into the fire. It burned immediately, leaving the flaky residue of burned paper. It could pass for burned money. Not many people were crazy enough to know what burned money actually looked like.
Ryan stiffened, thinking through the possibilities. It wasn’t likely that Brent would come back to talk. It wasn’t likely he’d sobered up. He was probably even more drunk, more fired up. He’d be looking for the money. He would have come back only for a showdown. Ryan didn’t own a gun, but his father had. Ryan had inventoried everything in the estate. He knew where everything was, right down to the last two million dollars. Down to the last thirty-eight-caliber bullet.
He sprinted down the hall to the master bedroom. The old Smith & Wesson was in the dresser, top drawer. The bullets were in the strongbox in the closet. Ryan grabbed the revolver first, then the ammunition. He loaded all six chambers and wrapped his hand around the pearl handle, the way his father had taught him. The gun was not a toy, he’d always warned Ryan, it was only for protection. Protection from drunken in-laws who were after the Duffy millions.
Ryan heard footsteps on the front porch, then a key in the front door. He switched off the safety on the revolver and started for the living room.
Gun in hand, he waited by the staircase, watching the front door. He heard keys jingling. He watched the lock turn. He raised the gun, taking aim, ready on the defense. The door opened. Ryan’s finger twitched. His heart pounded. His whole body stiffened, then suddenly relaxed.
“Mom?” he said, seeing her in the doorway.
She sniffed the smoky room. Her face went ashen. “Don’t tell me you really burned it.”
He was tongue-tied with surprise. His mother had always been intuitive, but to infer from the mere smell of smoke that he had burned all the money was downright clairvoyant. He lowered the gun, deciding to play dumb. “Burn what?”
She closed the door and went straight to the fireplace. “The money,” she said harshly. “I was at Sarah’s house and Brent came home all hysterical. Said you’d gone crazy and were burning the money.”
“Is he out there now?” ask Ryan. “I thought I saw his car.”
“Sarah drove me over.” She glanced at the ash in the fireplace. “I can’t believe you did this.”
He discreetly stuffed the gun into his pocket, hiding it from his mother. “What did Brent tell you?”
“He said you burned at least ten thousand dollars in the fireplace. That you threatened to burn it all.”
“That’s true.”
His mother stepped toward him, looked him in the eye. “Have you been drinking?”
“No. Brent’s the drunk. He came in here like a burglar looking for the money.”
Her