The windows aren’t open, but it feels like a chill wafts through the car.
“That’s just Rosewood lore,” I snap, although hearing it out loud sets my heart racing. “Besides, it was passed down to Gram’s mom, then her. That couldn’t have happened if it was never there to begin with.”
“Maybe only part of the fortune was passed down,” Daisy counters. “And maybe Gram blew through it or hid it wherever the rest is.”
“Hiding money for all these years doesn’t make sense,” Uncle Arbor says, thankfully taking my side. “In a bank or stocks, it accrues interest. There’s no reason to keep it off the books.”
“But remember that article written about her in the Rosetown Chronicle one time? Hold up, I’ll find the screenshot online.”
Daisy pulls out her phone, scrolling for a few moments before shoving it toward me, Instagram open. The page is one dedicated to our town’s history and local businesses. I read aloud the post Daisy found showing the top half of an aged newspaper, the caption appropriately tagged #throwbackThursday. “‘Could workers’ wages and a different kind of green be hidden beneath the flora? Rosewood Inc. employees demand answers.’”
“Who wrote that?” Uncle Arbor demands.
I zoom in on the image. “Theodore Hayworth.” I frown. “Wait, as in, related to the Mr. Hayworth we know?”
Daisy nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, probably his grandpa or something.”
“Hayworths are always looking for trouble when it comes to our family, and always have been,” Uncle Arbor says. “The Rosetown Chronicle is a borderline gossip column thanks to them. Besides, I asked Mom about that legend years ago. She assured me that’s all it is—a legend. Something the townspeople made up about Hyacinth because she was underpaying them a living wage and cutting the pay for those who didn’t reach their daily quota.”
“Or she was hiding away the money she saved on wages somewhere. She was known for being greedy,” Daisy says.
“Watch how you talk about your ancestors,” Uncle Arbor scolds. “And it’s not true. Petunia even said so in a journal entry, that it was just ridiculous lore. It’s been debunked.”
Daisy crosses her arms. “Fine. Then here’s another theory—it was never there to begin with.”
She’s met with silence.
“What do you mean?” I finally ask. “You heard Frank. There’s still the manor, Rosewood Inc., the villa.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, there’s stuff. But what if the money is gone? He did say that Gram’s been taking it out of her accounts. And besides, can we really trust Frank right now? He just kicked us out.”
“He’s doing his job,” Uncle Arbor defends, although I can tell he’s not happy with our family lawyer, either.
“I don’t understand how neither of you will entertain the idea that the money might be gone. Why else would Gram not even give money to Uncle Alder last year, which probably led him to—”
“Enough!” Uncle Arbor snaps, but we all know what she was going to say.
“Suicide,” the coroner told us last July, the memory singed into my brain. All Rosewoods had gathered in the great room. Mom was there but barely. She had already started mentally checking out before she left town. “A toxic mix of pharmaceuticals was found in Alder’s system.”
Deep in debt and with a town full of people in the same boat thanks to him, it was easy for the police to close the investigation and agree.
So he became just another Rosewood tragedy, like Petunia dying young after nearly tanking Rosewood Inc., my grandfather getting sick and never getting better, and Aunt Janelle abandoning her family. Alder Rosewood got added to the bitter list.
The problem is, I don’t think Daisy’s totally wrong. Living with Gram for a year and watching her deny requests from the businesses Dad screwed over hasn’t exactly built my grandmother the most philanthropic image. But I don’t think it’s because Gram blew through the money. She’s always been a strategic businesswoman. Her main priority was Rosewood Inc., and she was right for it. It’s bigger than ever right now.
But sometimes I can’t help but wonder if Dad would still be alive had Gram done things differently.
We pull onto a private drive. Rosewood Manor is the only gated property in town, but Uncle Arbor still has an impressive home. It’s just him and Daisy, but the house is huge, sprawling across several acres and boasting nine bedrooms and a backyard to rival Gram’s. A pool, hot tub, firepit, and rosebushes planted everywhere in between make it unmistakable as a Rosewood property. The spotless white brick mimics the manor, although it lacks the old-timey elegance that seems to cling to the estate we’re all now locked out of.
Uncle Arbor stops before the four-car garage. Daisy hops out of the car before it’s even off, storming through the front door.
“Go inside,” Uncle Arbor says wearily to me. “I’m going to go back. See if I can talk some sense into Frank.”
I grip the back of his seat. “But those women had guns.”
“I know.” His voice is hoarse. “I’ll be careful. Until it’s worked out, this house is your house, Lily. You’ve always had a room here, but the rest of it is yours, too. That’s the other thing I need to talk to Frank about. I know you turn eighteen soon and won’t need a legal guardian, but I want to make sure you’re covered in whatever way you need beyond that.”
My throat is tight as I lean over the console and press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”
I step inside the house, shutting the huge door behind me. My head falls against the wood, eyes burning from the pressure of unshed tears. It’s funny how I’ve spent the past year trying to prove to Gram I’m in control of my temper and every bit the perfect granddaughter she expected me to be.
Right now, all I want to do is break something.
“Why can you never back me up on literally anything?” Daisy stands in the entrance to the formal living room, hands on her hips. The decor is starkly modern compared to the traditional style of the manor. Abstract paintings dot the walls, a sleek black leather sectional taking up most of the room. White marble surrounds the fireplace, silver candelabras on the mantel. In her silky black dress, Daisy looks made for the house, a perfect match. Still standing in the foyer, I feel like exactly what I am—an unwanted intruder.
“Because it’s a legend.” My voice comes out quiet and biting. If she wants to fight, I’m happy to oblige.
“It’s just sus, you know? And if all her money is still around, it must be somewhere at the manor. That’s probably why we’re banned and why she recently fired all the employees.”
“She fired them?” That explains why Stewie didn’t drive us home, and why I didn’t recognize any of the cooks or staff the night of her party, either. Gram loved them. She wouldn’t have fired them unless she had to. “So why would Gram do that? Why hide any of it?”
Daisy deflates. “I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Daisy looks up sharply. “Well, at least I’m trying to figure it out. You’ve shut down.” She strides to where I stand beneath the modern iron chandelier in the foyer, getting in my face. “This all is really messing with you, isn’t it? Because in your eyes, Gram can do no wrong. At least, not until the night of the party, when she bought a trip to Milan for me and not you.”
I bristle at her words, a thousand comebacks on my tongue and none making it past my lips. Turning my back on her, I stomp up the stairs.
“What? Did you think you would get all of it?” Daisy goads, trailing me all the way to my room, which is next to hers. “You thought Gram would leave you all the money because you lived with her. Admit it—you’re mad at her, too.”
I whirl when I get to my doorway. Something must be in my eyes, because Daisy stumbles back until she hits the wall across from me. “You don’t know anything about what I thought. Leave me alone.” I slam my door in her face.
She kicks it from the other side, then slams her own door. Seconds later, music blasts. I grit my teeth, the tears I held in all day spilling onto my cheeks.
“I hate you,” I cry to the soft blue walls of my room and matching carpet. They’re the last words I ever said to Dad, and the memory of that day threatens to drown me. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! Sometimes I don’t understand how the two most powerful words in the world are both four letters, one syllable. How they roll off the tongue like nothing but impact everything. Hate and love.
The latter has never come easy to me.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the dresser and gurgle on a laugh. Black mascara is halfway down my face, making me look clownish, which fits, because all of this feels like a sick joke. For a second during the will reading, I actually thought I might inherit an entire fortune at seventeen.
Almost eighteen, a tiny voice in my head whispers unhelpfully.
“Shut up,” I sneer out loud. As the adrenaline of my fight with Daisy leaks out, it makes room for anxiety to crawl in. I have no idea what comes next. Not only for me, but for my family. The fortune missing makes us look like fools. We’ll be the laughingstock of the town.
For this single moment, I wish I were Daisy. That I could lose myself in music and my thousands of TikTok followers, hit up a group chat full of friends and arrange a bonfire. Call up my latest fling and see what they’re up to. Get lost in them and their touch.
But I’m not her. I don’t have any group chats, and certainly nobody who might kiss me until I forget this horrible day. I’m too embarrassed to text Miles back since I’ve been ignoring his check-ins lately. So that leaves one last option for distraction.
And it’s not much of a distraction.
The letter Gram left for me is still rumpled in my hand. I turn it over, running my pointer finger over the red wax seal. When I was little, I’d watch Gram stamp that seal across hundreds of envelopes. Sometimes I’d stick my finger in the hot wax and she’d threaten to take off my eyebrows. But it was always followed by a laugh and a kiss to the top of my head.
I slide my finger under the seal until it pops, breaking the perfect rose. Lifting the flap, I pull out the folded piece of paper, thick cardstock that Gram used for every letter, preparing for . . . well, I don’t even know. Her final words for me, I guess.
All at once, like I’m trying to win a race, I unfold the letter and stare at the page.
It’s . . . blank.
Blank.
A new batch of tears brew as I turn the sheet over. Blank on the other side, too. What the hell, Gram? After all our letters, all these years, all I get is a blank sheet of paper?
I throw it down on the purple bedspread, staring into the envelope in case I missed something. Empty. Just my name on the back. I pick up the paper again. Why would you—?
“Oh!” I exclaim. Night fell fast, leaving me in the shadows. I turn on the bedside lamp, holding the page under it. There—in the top left corner. A smudge.
“Always playing games,” I mutter, running into the en suite bathroom. I grab a washcloth from above the toilet, wetting it under the sink spray and wringing it until it’s just slightly damp. Flattening the blank page on the quartz counter, I take the washcloth and run it along the smudge. At the wetness, words appear.
Dear Lilylove,
I hold my breath and wipe the washcloth across the rest of the page, taking special care not to soak the paper too much. In the wake of the water, there are sentences, all in Gram’s delicate cursive. When I get to the end of the page, I drop the washcloth, staring down at the last few lines Gram left me. The last words I’ll ever have from her.
Dear Lilylove,
I know whatever time we’ve had together by the time you receive this letter wasn’t enough. It couldn’t have been, because I could have spent forever and a day with you. I know you’re confused, maybe scared, and knowing you, probably angry. You inherited the Rosewood temper, after all. You’re right to feel all these things, and more. I wish I were with you to explain.
But I’m not, so you’ll have to trust me. If it’s answers you seek, look where my love for you first bloomed.
You have my heart,
Gram
I grip the cool counter to keep from keeling over, memorizing the words, the curve of the letters and pressure of the pen, imagining the custom barrel in her veined hands. All of it, like embroidery on my brain. But it’s the last line that spins in my mind. If it’s answers you seek, look where my love for you first bloomed.
It’s a riddle. Something Gram would put together knowing I’m the only one who would really know the answer, because I’ve spent my whole life playing her games. And I know exactly where she’s telling me to go.
Problem is, I’m now banned from there. By her orders.
If I were to go, it’d have to be late. I know the only camera is by the front gate, but Frank and those two women might still be around, or whatever other security he gets. And Uncle Arbor might still be there. Heading back to Rosewood Manor right now isn’t an option. I’m not about to get caught breaking and entering at my own house.
Well, Gram was right about one thing—I am angry. And scared, and confused, and a whole other slew of emotions. Nothing could have ever prepared me for something like this. For my grandmother’s last words to me to be some kind of clue.
And if it is . . . does that mean Daisy’s kind of right? Could the fortune really be hidden somewhere?
I don’t know what to think, and I’m so, so tired that I’m not even sure I’m completely coherent anymore. Grief is its own illness, climbing under skin and burrowing in bones. It’s heavy, like the worst weighted blanket ever. Dragging me down and stealing my breath. And familiar. So hauntingly familiar. An old enemy.
But the letter is a streak of sunlight through the thick darkness. And maybe that’s the point. A little something just for me. The distraction I need so I’m not dragged under.
I grab the letter and reenter my room as I strip off my black dress and kick my heels into the corner. Uncle Arbor had grabbed clothes of mine last week knowing I’d be here, but I don’t have nearly enough things to last me longer than a couple more days. Plus, in true dad fashion, he had no idea what to bring me, picking my oldest, blandest clothes and a pair of white high-tops I haven’t worn since sophomore year.
Despite the lack of fashion, I’m grateful to tug on soft leggings and a worn tee. I turn off the light and climb in bed, laying the letter beside me.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I whisper into the darkness, my eyes heavy as I stare at it. The words are just splotches of black against the ivory parchment.
I could sneak in through the space in the hedge. I’d be in and out in five minutes. I know where to step to stay away from the floodlights and windows. Once I’m in the Anything but Roses garden, no one would be able to see me.
Or I could stay here. Sleep through the night, prepare for the funeral tomorrow afternoon. Keep waiting, wishing, hoping, praying my situation might change. That when I wake up, all of this will just be some terrible nightmare and I’ll laugh about it with Gram while eating lovecakes and looking at new designs.
Sudden and throbbing, my chest aches with the realization that I lost more than my grandmother. I lost my best friend.
At some point, Daisy’s music fades and Uncle Arbor comes home, steps heavy with defeat as the door of his room clicks shut. I watch the moon through my window as it inches across the sky, checking the time on my phone. Almost three. The world is quiet. Asleep.
I should be asleep. But I can’t. Gram was about to say something the night she died. She needs me to know something, and at this rate, I have nothing to lose.
Whatever you’re trying to tell me, I think as I kick off the covers. I’m ready to listen.