Page 59 of Your Every Wish
“Is this what you thought it would look like?” I finally ask.
“I don’t know. Shall we continue to explore?”
I tacitly agree and we move on to the other side of the house. The first room is clearly Willy’s office. It’s torn apart. The feds clearly had a field day in here. The faded spot on his desk where there must’ve been a computer is empty except for a rope of cords. Files and paperwork are strewn across the floor and books have been knocked down from their shelves and are everywhere. Emma picks up a heavy bound one and studies the spine.
A photograph of an old woman leans against the wall on the floor underneath a wall safe that’s been opened. Inside, the shelves are bare except for a watch, a ring, and a photo album.
“Should we take them?” I assume the watch and ring are worth something.
Emma doesn’t answer, she’s too busy studying the picture of the old woman. “Who do you think this is?”
“I have no idea. Would your mom know?”
“Maybe. We can start a pile on the desk.” She gingerly places the picture there.
I add the ring, which has some kind of insignia on it, and the watch.
“What about the photo album?” Emma asks.
“Oh, right.” I take it from the safe and put it next to everything else.
Emma reaches out to touch a crocheted Afghan that’s folded over a wine-colored leather wing chair, then picks it up and sets it on the pile. There’s not much trunk space in my car and I wish she would save it for the good stuff.
I zoom in on a collection of crystal glassware on one of the shelves of the built-in wet bar. They’re monogramed with Willy’s initials, probably a gift. One of his fans from the gambling world might be willing to pay big bucks for them. I gather them up and put them with our collection. At least the Afghan will help cushion them in the car.
A couple of framed photos have been knocked into the sink; one of them is of a man who resembles Willy, at least according to the pictures I’ve seen of my late father.
Emma watches me as I study the photo. “It’s his brother. He called me once, looking for Willy. My hunch is he needed money; he had that desperate thing going on.”
“How did he find you?” I wonder if he even knows I exist.
“I assume a Google search. I’m easily found.”
Right, her advice column.
“He probably tried to find my mom but got me instead,” Emma says.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I hadn’t seen Willy since I was three. That his guess was as good as mine of where Willy was. He didn’t even bother to ask about me, how I was doing, or any of the things you would ask a niece.” She gives a nonchalant shrug, but it’s got to hurt.
“Let’s check out the primary.” I lead the way to the end of the long hall, assuming that’s where whatever fits the key will be.
Every room has a better view than the last and Willy’s bedroom is no exception. I bet if I opened the window I could hear the sea.
“Oh boy,” Emma says.
“Yeah, the feds did a number in here.”
The box spring and mattress set has been pulled off its frame and cut open with a knife. Lord knows what they were looking for that Willy would’ve hidden in his bed.
More books are scattered across the floor, some with the pages torn out. His dresser drawers have all been ransacked, his underwear and socks dumped in a heap in the corner of the room. His walk-in closet is in even worse shape with suits, shirts, and ties flung far and wide, some torn. Even his shoes are in disarray. Any hope of salvaging his designer wardrobe is completely dashed.
“Why did they have to be so careless with his things?” I say more to myself than to Emma.
“They were probably just trying to be thorough. But yeah, it feels pretty hate-filled.”
“Why? It wasn’t as if he murdered someone. He acted on a stock tip, for God’s sake. I’m not saying that what he did isn’t gaming the system or fair”—I gaze around his trashed closet—“but this seems like overkill.”
