“Everyone should come to the Elm Street house right now to open the safe together,” I announced.

Cousin Marcus looked at Uncle Raymond, then nodded slowly and walked toward his car.

By twelve forty-five, twenty relatives were crowded shoulder to shoulder inside Dad’s oak study on Elm Street.

The small room was hot and smelled of wool coats, damp leather, and the peppermint throat lozenges Dad kept in his desk drawer.

Julian paced back and forth behind Dad’s big oak desk, adjusting his gold wristwatch again and again as he spoke to the room.

“You’re all here to see the truth,” Julian bragged, gesturing broadly to the crowd lined up against the bookshelves.