Inside lay my grandmother’s entire life, treated like refuse. Standing on the porch in a crisp polo shirt was my uncle, ready to announce his sale. I did not scream. I simply decided that if he wanted to sell this farm for $1.6 million today, he would do it with the noose he had tied for himself.
My name is Ruby Stewart, and for thirty-six years, the gravel crunching under my tires on the road to Marigold Farm had sounded like a heartbeat. It was a rhythm that meant safety, warm oatmeal cookies, and the smell of earth that had been turned over by three generations of my family. I knew every pothole on that two-mile stretch outside of Grafton Ridge better than I knew the back of my own hand. But on that Tuesday afternoon, the heartbeat stopped dead.
I was supposed to be there an hour later. I had left my office at Lakemont University early, skipping a faculty meeting because a strange knot of anxiety had tightened in my chest around noon. I told myself I was just going to help organize Grandma Eve’s papers. We had buried her two weeks ago, and the grief was still a raw, open thing, like a burn that refused to scab over. I expected to find the house quiet. I expected to see the dust motes dancing in the afternoon light in the front hallway.
Instead, I found a metal monstrosity blocking the driveway. It was a roll-off dumpster, the massive industrial kind usually reserved for construction sites or demolition zones. It sat there like a rust-colored wound against the vibrant green of the late spring pastures, sitting askew so that no car could pass it to get to the main house. It smelled of wet rot and stagnant iron. I slammed my car into park and killed the engine. The silence of the country was gone, replaced by the heavy thud of objects hitting metal.
My boots hit the dirt, kicking up clouds of dust as I ran toward the obstruction. Standing on the porch, looking like he was posing for a campaign photo, was my uncle, Dale Maddox. He was not dressed for cleaning. He was not dressed for mourning. Dale was wearing a navy polo shirt that was tucked tightly into khaki slacks—the kind with a razor-sharp crease down the front. His loafers were polished to a shine that reflected the afternoon sun. He held a clipboard in one hand and was pointing with the other, directing two men in gray coveralls who were hauling heavy black bags out the front door.
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