The organist kept playing for a few bars. Then he noticed, and the music stumbled and trailed off.
People looked at each other.
“Grandpa?” I whispered. “Are you okay? Do you need to sit?”
He didn’t answer me.
He turned slowly, leaning on his cane, until he was facing the front row.
Facing my mother.
The whole church went quiet. Three hundred people holding their breath.
Then my grandfather said eight words. Loud and clear, in a voice that carried all the way up to the stained glass.
“Tell them where my money went, Margaret. Now.”
The entire church gasped.
It was a real sound, all at once, like everyone had been punched in the stomach at the same time.
My father’s smile disappeared immediately. It just dropped off his face, like somebody had pulled a plug.
My mother didn’t move. She stood there with her purse clutched in front of her, staring at her father. Her face had gone the color of paper.
