Mom’s expression twisted.
“You cruel old man.”
Grandpa nodded once.
“Maybe. But still old enough to know when the wolves have learned to call themselves children.”
For the next hour, the Whitaker house became a battlefield without weapons.
Dad stormed upstairs, slamming open drawers.
Mom packed jewelry, coats, and every expensive lotion from the bathroom as though she were emptying a hotel suite before checkout.
Caleb went to his bedroom and returned with two duffel bags, his gaming console, and a framed photograph of himself with Grandpa at a baseball game when he was ten.
He stopped beside the door.
For one second, I thought he might apologize.
Instead, he said, “You’ll get tired of taking care of him.”
I gave him an honest answer.
“Probably.”
That seemed to unsettle him.
I continued, “But I won’t steal from him because I’m tired.”
He left without speaking again.
Dad departed last.
He stood in the entryway wearing a dark overcoat, his suitcase upright beside him.
“You think this makes you powerful, Avery?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I looked around the house—the scraped baseboards, the tilted Christmas tree, the faded family pictures, and Grandpa’s rocking chair beside the fireplace.
“It makes me awake.”
Disgust flickered across Dad’s face.
“You were always so dramatic.”
Grandpa stepped beside me.
“And you were always so predictable.”
Dad opened the front door, and snow blew across his shoes.
Mom waited in the rented SUV outside, crying into her phone. Caleb sat in the back, staring ahead.
Before leaving, Dad looked at Grandpa one final time.
“My lawyer will destroy this.”
Grandpa gave him a small smile.
“Then tell him to start with the bank cameras, the signatures, the emails, the medical forms, the notary records, and your recorded call with Green Hollow.”
