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The bank manager’s face went completely white.
His hands trembled as he reached for the phone.
“Lock the front doors,” he told his assistant.
“And call the police. Now.”
He looked at me like I had just handed him something dangerous instead of my dead grandfather’s old passbook—the same passbook my mother threw in the trash just yesterday, calling it worthless junk that should’ve stayed buried with him.
She was so sure it meant nothing.
Turns out some secrets refuse to stay in the grave, and some of them have teeth.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.
My name is Danica Gross.
I’m 31 years old, and until that morning, I thought the most exciting part of my week would be fighting with my landlord about the broken radiator in my apartment.
I work as a paralegal at a small law firm in Columbus, Ohio. It’s not glamorous. The pay is modest.
My car is twelve years old and makes a sound like a dying whale every time I turn left.
But I’m good at my job because I notice things.
I ask questions. I don’t let go until I find answers.
My family has always considered this a character flaw.
The funeral was on a Tuesday.
My grandfather, Eugene Gross, had passed away at eighty-nine years old. He lived on a modest farm about two hours outside the city—the kind of place with a wraparound porch and fields that stretched out to the horizon.
Everyone assumed he had nothing: just an old man in an old house, living out his final years in quiet simplicity.
That’s certainly what my mother wanted everyone to believe.
The service was small, efficient, and cold—exactly Miriam-style.
My mother has always believed that emotions are a form of weakness, and funerals are no exception. She organized the whole thing like a corporate event: thirty minutes for the ceremony, forty-five minutes for the reception, and then everyone goes home. No lingering.
No unnecessary tears.
The catering was from a place that clearly believed mayonnaise was a food group.
My grandmother would have risen from her grave just to complain about the potato salad. She had standards.
Miriam does not.
My brother, Wyatt, showed up forty minutes late in a suit that cost more than my car. He said parking was difficult.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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