Chapter 6

"It's all written in the ledger," I said, flipping to the next page. "The painting's market value is over 28 thousand dollars. Auction price: 250 thousand dollars."

I paused, staring at that line of tiny characters Grandpa had scribbled in the ledger.

"Grandpa said he bought the painting for just 1,500 dollars thirty years ago and hung it in his study ever since. Every day, he'd sit there with his coffee, admiring it, always saying the shrimps were full of spirit," I said.

I looked up at Aunt Margaret.

"Two months later, you bought an Audi Q5," I said.

"The ledger had recorded: License plate CA·8XXX7, vehicle purchased in September 2019, base price 205,000 dollars. There was also a photo. Aunt Margaret had been picking up her car at the dealership. The banner behind her had read: 'Congratulations, Mrs. Hartwell, on Your New Ride!'"

Aunt Margaret's face turned pale.

"I... I saved up for it myself..." Aunt Margaret muttered, her voice growing weaker as she avoided my gaze.

"Grandpa had me walk with him every Saturday," I said. "Your car was always parked right by the gate. Every time we passed, he'd stop and take a long look at the license plate."

I remember it perfectly. It was a new black Audi, parked under the camphor tree.

Grandpa would always pause, just stand there next to it, silent, staring at the plate for a long time.

Sometimes he'd reach out and gently touch the car door, like he was handling something fragile.

I put the photo back in the ledger and flipped to the next entry.

"Once, he stood by the car for ages, and finally said, 'This car... It's what I got for my shrimp painting,'" I said.

I thought he was joking and asked what he meant.

He just shook his head and didn't say anything else.

He kept walking, slow and hunched, his back seeming more bent than ever.

Aunt Margaret stumbled backward, almost crashing into the sofa.

She nearly lost her balance, and Uncle Robert reached out to steady her.

His face was ashen, jaw clenched tight.

He glared at Aunt Margaret, fury burning in his eyes.

I kept flipping through the ledger.

"November 2020, Barclays International home loan. Borrower: Edwin Hartwell. Amount: 500 thousand dollars. The one who actually used the money: George Hartwell," I read aloud.

Inside was a copy of the loan contract. Grandpa's signature, and Uncle Thomas's bank account listed as the recipient.

Next to it, Grandpa wrote a note in the margin: "Thomas said he was buying me a spot in a nursing home and asked me to sign. The money went to his account, just to make things easier. But Lawyer Morrell found out the money ended up at a real estate agency."

There was also a photocopy of the property ownership certificate.

Owner: Michael Hartwell (Uncle Thomas's son). Purchase date: December 2020.

There was also a photo of the whole family gathered at the entrance to their new home.

Uncle Thomas was beaming, his arm resting on his son's shoulder.

Behind them was the sparkling new gate of the residential complex, with "Maplecrest Estates" written across it.

Uncle Thomas hung his head even lower, his shoulders trembling. He gripped his knees, clutching his pants so tightly that the fabric was bunched up with wrinkles.

I flipped to the next page.

"The loan and interest still haven't been paid back. Total owed: 615 thousand dollars," I read aloud.

Grandpa had circled the amount in red and scribbled in the margin: "Thomas lied to me. He said it was for my care.

"I'm already eighty. Do I really need a nursing home? He told me the place was nice and asked me to sign. I believed him.

"But the money went to buy a house, and the property is under Michael's name."

Below that, he wrote: "I called him and asked. He said, 'Dad, you must be confused. The house is for you to live in.' I went to see, and the place is already on the market."

I shut the ledger.

The living room fell silent.

Everyone stared at the pile of evidence on the coffee table. No one dared to say a word. Someone shuffled their feet, as if about to leave, but froze in place.

Cousin William couldn't sit still anymore. He got up and walked over to me, trying to keep his voice gentle.

"Clara," he said, clearing his throat. "We're family. No need to dredge up the past, right? We'll pay back what we owe your dad. How about this: give us three years, and we'll pay it off in installments. The business isn't doing so well right now, so if you could just give us a little time, we'll pay it back bit by bit."

He kept his eyes locked on me, like he was trying to gauge my reaction.

I stared right back at him.

"Family?" I scoffed.

William stiffened.

"Family doesn't go around saying the fourth house is wiped out on the day of my dad's funeral," I shot back.

His face flushed, and he took a half step back. His Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to speak, but the words just got stuck in his throat.

"I was just drunk, okay? I didn't mean it..." he muttered, sounding defensive.

"Was your mom drunk too?" I shot back, turning to Margaret. "You said right in front of my mom that since the fourth branch didn't have a son, we weren't even part of the Hartwell family. My mom handed you a tissue, and you just tossed it on the floor."