“Evidence.”
My grandmother said, “Your mother knew she might need proof.”
The attorney asked, “Proof of what?”
The brother laughed weakly.
“Me stealing.”
But I was beginning to think that wasn’t everything.
“What was in Mom’s purse?”
Silence.
I repeated the question.
My father’s brother said, “Copies.”
“Of the invoices?”
“And a flash drive.”
My father looked confused.
“What flash drive?”
The brother’s breathing changed.
“You really didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
“The backups.”
My grandmother leaned closer to the phone.
“What backups?”
“Your mother copied accounting files from the office.”
My father stared at the table.
“Where is the drive?”
“Nobody knows.”
My pulse quickened.
“The message says to ask what was in her purse.”
My father’s brother answered quietly.
“The flash drive.”
“What happened to the purse?”
My father closed his eyes.
“I took it from the hospital.”
“Where is it?”
“I gave it to your grandmother with the rest of her things.”
My grandmother shook her head.
“No.”
Everyone looked at her.
“You gave me her coat. Her jewelry. A shoe they found in the car. Her wallet.”
She looked toward my father.
“Not the purse.”
My father went pale.
“I remember carrying it.”
“To where?”
He pressed both hands against his forehead.
“The office.”
The attorney leaned forward.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“I had just left the hospital. I went to the office because insurance called. I remember putting her things on my desk.”
“Then?”
“My brother was there.”
Silence.
We looked toward the phone.
My father’s brother did not speak.
My father’s voice hardened.
“You took it.”
“No.”
“You were alone in the office.”
“I didn’t take the purse.”
“What did you take?”
Nothing.
“Tell me.”
The brother breathed out.
“The flash drive.”
My father stood.
“You told me you didn’t know where it was.”
“I don’t.”
“You just said you took it.”
“I took it twelve years ago.”
“What happened to it?”
“I gave it to someone.”
The room became silent.
“Who?”
“I don’t know his real name.”
My father laughed in disbelief.
“You killed my wife, let me cover for you, stole evidence from her purse, and gave it to a stranger?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
I slammed my palm onto the table.
“Stop saying that.”
Everybody looked at me.
“No more ‘it wasn’t like that.’ No more ‘it’s complicated.’ Say what happened.”
The brother was silent.
Then he said, “I owed money.”
My grandmother closed her eyes.
Of course.