I remembered how he’d look at me while he played. He never looked at the boys. He only looked at me, his eyes tired and sad, like he was trying to apologize for something he hadn’t done yet.

I don’t think he was crazy for hiding it. I think he was just tired of being used.

Last week, Lester and Dean came over. They didn’t knock. They just barged in, looking like they hadn’t slept in a month. They wanted to search my house. They told me I owed them for taking care of Daddy.

I stood in the doorway and blocked them. I didn’t even raise my voice. I just looked at them and told them to leave before I called the sheriff.

They left, but they looked broken. They knew now that the farmhouse wasn’t worth the taxes on it. The real value had been in the land they’d spent all their time trying to claw away from me.

I still have the accordion. It’s sitting on the shelf now, silent.

I keep the key to the locker on my keychain. Every time I get a call from an unknown number, I reach into my pocket and touch it. It’s cold against my thumb.

My brothers don’t speak to me now. They call me a thief. They tell anyone who will listen that I manipulated a dying man.

I know what they say. I hear it through the grapevine at the grocery store. I don’t care.

I think about Daddy a lot. I wonder if he sat in that chair and laughed to himself while he worked the papers into the bellows. I wonder if he knew exactly how long it would take for me to finally open it.

Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just hoped I would find it eventually.

I’m sitting here tonight, and the house is so quiet. I can hear the clock ticking on the wall, a steady, rhythmic sound that feels like a heartbeat.

I’m going to sell the lakefront lot. I’ve already contacted an agent.

Lester called again today. He said he was going to force me to sell the farm and split the proceeds. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I already owned the deed to that too.

I’ll let him figure it out when the legal papers arrive in his mailbox.

I’m not a hero. I know that. I took the money, and I kept the secret, and I watched them spiral while I did nothing to stop it.

But for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for permission to exist.

The accordion is just a box of wood and leather. It doesn’t sing anymore. I think I’ll take it to the dump tomorrow.

Or maybe I’ll keep it. Maybe I’ll keep it as a reminder of the one time I finally got the last note.