He shrugged. “He always hid it in the same spot.”
Inside, the house smelled like mothballs and old wood. The air was musty, but not like in an abandoned place. There were signs Harold had still been living here: half-empty water glasses, a worn recliner, a newspaper dated two weeks ago.
However, something about the space felt guarded, like it didn’t want us there.
Part of the reason Harold banned us from his house was that, before my husband died, my FIL already hated us. The thing was, Harold had always lived recklessly. He spent his money too easily, frequently socialized with friends, and always borrowed money, among other things.
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