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(Day 9) Inheritance

There’s nothing here, he thought to himself. He was on his knees in front of the hope chest his mother had owned. The top was up and propped against the footboard in his parents’ room. The contents were missing.

He sat back on his heels and sighed, looking around the room for signs of disturbance, foul play. The window was closed and locked; the small, porcelain knick-knacks just under the sill were similarly undisturbed. Dammit.

He stood, winced in creaking knees, and said it aloud. “Dammit. Caroline!”

His young, dark-haired sister bounded into the room. “Yeah, Blake?”

Blake tapped the empty chest with his Converse sneaker’s toe. “It’s gone. Probably taken during the wake.”

Caroline shook her head slowly, her eyes registering the loss. “Dad’s Luger. Is there nothing sacred?”

Blake shrugged and rubbed his eyes wearily. “I guess not.” When he opened them, he was staring down the barrel of an old pistol. “Wha-”

“You’re probably right about that,” laughed Caroline. “Thanks for the gun.”

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