If on Christmas Eve your family received sweaters and cookies while you were handed a rusty key worth $92 million, what would you do? My parents laughed in my face when I claimed it was real. Three months later, they stood in court begging me to drop the lawsuit. This is not a story about a senile old man. It is a calculated plan of revenge, and I was the only pawn he chose to flip the table.
My name is Scarlet Flores, and I am 29 years old. I work as an internal auditor for Marigold and Lantern Forensic Finance in Portland, Maine. My job, in its simplest terms, is to look at columns of numbers that appear perfectly normal on the surface and find the rot hidden underneath. I dig through receipts, cross-reference ledgers, and find the lies people tell themselves and the IRS. It is a quiet job for a quiet person. It requires patience, a lack of ego, and a high tolerance for uncomfortable truths. Perhaps that is why I was the only one driving north on Route 201, heading straight into a blizzard, while the rest of my family was likely still arguing over which outfit would look best on Instagram.
The wipers of my five-year-old Subaru were fighting a losing battle against the heavy, wet snow. Cedar Ridge was not really a town anymore; it was a collection of memories and dying pine trees about four hours north of civilization. My grandfather, Elliot Quinn, lived there in a cabin that predated my birth. The heating was temperamental, the cell service was non-existent, and the nearest Starbucks was forty miles away. To my parents, Paul and Linda Quinn, going to Cedar Ridge was a punishment. To me, it was the only place in the world that felt like it had a pulse.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter as the car slid slightly on a patch of black ice. My knuckles turned white. I was always the first one to arrive. I was the one who bought the groceries because Mom forgot. I was the one who brought the extra firewood because Dad complained about his back. I was the shock absorber for the Quinn family dysfunction. They called me reliable. I knew the real word was convenient.
My parents lived in a sprawling colonial in a suburb of Boston that they could barely afford. They were people who measured affection in carats and success in square footage. My mother, Linda, treated every family gathering like a performance review for a job I never applied for. “Scarlet, are you still single? Scarlet, that sweater makes you look boxy. Scarlet, why don’t you move to a firm in New York?” They did not understand why I chose to stay in Maine, living in a small apartment, saving 40% of my paycheck, and driving a car that was paid off. They called it a lack of ambition. I called it freedom.
Then there was my Uncle Darren and his wife, Aunt Kelsey. If my parents were obsessed with status, Darren and Kelsey were obsessed with the perception of status. They were loud, colorful, and deeply hollow. Their daughter, my cousin Bri, was twenty-two and lived her entire life through the lens of her iPhone. She had thousands of followers who watched her pretend to be happy. I often wondered if she knew what genuine happiness felt like without a filter.
The cabin appeared through the treeline, a dark shape against the blinding white of the snow. Smoke was rising steadily from the stone chimney. It smelled of burning pine and cold air. I parked the car next to Grandpa’s ancient truck, a beast of a vehicle that had not moved in three years. When I stepped out, the cold hit me like a physical blow. It was the kind of cold that froze the moisture in your nose instantly. I grabbed my duffel bag and a bag of groceries, trudging through knee-deep snow to the porch. The wood creaked under my boots, a familiar sound that triggered a sudden, sharp ache in my chest. I knocked the snow off my coat and pushed the heavy oak door open.
“Grandpa,” I called out.
The interior was dim, lit only by the fire roaring in the hearth and a few lamps scattered around. The smell was overpowering in the best way possible: wood smoke, old paper, tobacco, and something sweet like molasses. Elliot Quinn was sitting in his leather armchair by the fire. He turned as I entered, and his face broke into a smile that reached his eyes. He stood up slower than I remembered—much slower. He looked thinner, his flannel shirt hanging a little loose on his shoulders. He was in his late seventies, but he had always been a giant of a man to me. Seeing him frail was like seeing a mountain erode.
“Scarlet,” he said, his voice raspy. “I knew you would beat the storm.”
He pulled me into a hug. He smelled of Old Spice and sawdust. He held on for a long time, longer than usual. His hands were trembling slightly.
“How are you, Grandpa?” I asked, pulling back to look at him. “How is the cough?”
“It is just winter,” he dismissed, waving a hand. But I saw the handkerchief tucked into his pocket, spotted with red. “Tell me about you. How is work? Did you catch any bad guys this quarter?”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
