“And?”
Will exhaled sharply. “He admitted it. He didn’t even try to deny it.”
My throat tightened. “He apologized?”
Will laughed—one bitter sound. “Yeah. He apologized. He said he was sorry, he said he was desperate, he said he didn’t know Grandma’s reasons.”
I swallowed. “Did you believe him?”
Will’s silence answered first.
Then he said, quieter, “I believe he feels bad now.”
My chest tightened. That was the truth of most regrets: they arrived late and still demanded to be taken seriously.
Will continued, voice tight. “But you know what got me? He kept saying, ‘It was just jewelry, Will.’ Like that made it smaller.”
I flinched.
Will’s voice shook with anger. “It wasn’t just jewelry. It was Grandma. It was you. It was our family.”
“I know,” I whispered.
Will exhaled hard. “I asked him how he could steal from a coffin.”
My stomach turned at the phrasing.
“And what did he say?” I asked softly.
“He said he didn’t steal from a coffin,” Will snapped. “He stole before. Like that made it better.”
I closed my eyes.
Will’s voice lowered. “Mom… I almost hit him.”
A chill went through me. “Will.”
“I didn’t,” he said quickly, strained. “I didn’t. But I wanted to.”
My throat burned. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
Will went silent for a beat.
Then, quieter, “He cried. He really cried. And that messed me up. Because I wanted him to be a monster. Monsters are easy.”
I felt tears sting my eyes.
“Monsters are easy,” I repeated softly.
“Yeah,” Will said. “But he’s just Dan. He’s just Uncle Dan, who taught me how to throw a baseball and took me to my first movie and… stole from Grandma.”
His voice broke on the last word.
I swallowed hard. “What did you do with the necklace?”
Will’s breathing changed.
“It’s in my pocket,” he said. “I haven’t taken it out. I don’t know what to do with it.”
I closed my eyes again and pictured my mother’s diary entry on my kitchen table.
Let it go with me. Let them keep each other instead.
“Come home,” I said.
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