Mason grabbed for it.
Mr.
Whitaker moved it out of reach.
“Sit down.”
Something about an eighty-two-year-old man saying it so calmly made Mason obey.
I read the appraisal.
The number at the bottom did not make sense at first.
I read it again.
Then a third time.
The collection was worth more than the farmhouse.
Far more.
Even the conservative estimate placed its value deep into six figures.
Brooke stopped touching her bracelet.
Mason stared at the wall as if the farmhouse had personally insulted him.
“That can’t be right,” he said.
“It was right when the appraisal was performed,” Mr.
Whitaker replied.
“The final value would depend on condition, authentication, and current market conditions.”
Mason looked at me.
“You knew.”
I almost laughed.
“You watched me discover the wall ten minutes ago.”
“You knew there was something.”
“I had a key with two words written on it.”
Brooke took a step toward me.
“We should divide it.”
There it was.
Not congratulations.
Not Dad planned this carefully.
Not Clara, are you okay?
We should divide it.
Mr.
Whitaker’s mouth became a thin line.
Brooke kept going.
“Obviously Dad meant for all three of us to have something from inside the family house.
That’s reasonable.”
“You have Mom’s pearls around your neck,” I said.
Her hand rose instinctively to them.
“Mason has the cabin.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
She didn’t answer.
Mason did.
“Because nobody knew this existed.”
“That,” Mr.
Whitaker said, “is precisely the point your father anticipated.”
He turned another page toward us.
The will’s language was even clearer than I remembered.
The farmhouse, surrounding acreage, fixtures, furnishings, personal effects, stored items, hidden items, and all other contents physically located within the structure at the time of death passed to me.
Dad had not forgotten the box.
He had written the will around it.
Brooke looked at Mr.
Whitaker.
“Dad was sick.”
Mason seized on it immediately.
“Exactly.
