Page 202 of Ice Princess

Mom spins the box around and takes out the contents. Inside, there are formal tax documents, printed emails, and a folded letter.

“The emails aren’t addressed to me,” mom says. “It’s to someone named Amir O’Neil. I’m not sure who that is.”

“It’s the owner of dad’s tax accounting firm in the city.” Sheriff Kinsey’s eyes dip to his shoes and he takes a deep breath before looking at mom again. “I recognize my father’s hand writing in the letter. May I?”

Mom nods.

Sheriff Kinsey unfolds the letter and flips to the page that was torn from the version Clarence Kinsey tampered with. Hereads quietly and then his hand falls limp. “Dad knew this would happen.”

“What do you mean? What does it say?” I ask.

Sherriff Kinsey hands me the letter but, when he speaks, it’s to Gunner. “You were right. He gave the Harts the property near Darkwell Ridge.”

“Darkwell Ridge?” Mom croaks. “The place where they found oil?”

Gunner places both hands on the table, his head hanging low.

Sheriff Kinsey is sober enough for a funeral.

While I wrap my arms around mom who’s trembling with shock, I can’t help but feel burdened when I look at Gunner. He and his dad must have prepared for this moment, but it probably still feels like a rock landed on them knowing that it’s official.

Mom and I are rich.

And the Kinseys owe us everything.

A few months ago, I’d have been whooping and hollering and celebrating the fairness of life. After all, I’ve hated the Kinseys for so long.

But after everything, this is no victory.

“I can’t believe this,” mom says, cupping her chin and staring off into the distance. “I can’t believe this.”

“We’re going to give you two some privacy.” Sheriff Kinsey gestures to Gunner. The giant hockey player catches my eye. We share a silent look before he disappears.

“What do the emails say, Rebel?”

I look through them, my voice trembling. “It… seems like Clay Kinsey was discussing taxes with the accounting firm.” I run my fingers over a line of text and read, “‘The current estate qualifies for the highest tax bracket, but there is a loophole to remain in a lower bracket and relieve the tax burden on your family after your passing’.”

“What doesthatmean?” Mom hyperventilates. “Why are those emails in the box? It doesn’t make sense.”

I read through the rest of the correspondence quickly. “They’re referring to inheritance taxes, mom.” My eyes catch on my mother’s name and I linger there. “I think you should read this.”

Mom accepts the email from me and reads in a wispy voice, “‘I’ve taken your advice into consideration and would like to avoid entering the higher tax bracket, thus, I’ve chosen to leave the property near Darkwell Ridge to a non-family member, my cleaner…’” My mother’s knees buckle. She hands the letter to me. “Rebel, w-what does this mean for us now?”

“It means…” I blow out a breath, “that the Kinseys owe us the Darkwell Ridge property. And all the money they made from the oil there.”

“W-what?”

“It wasn’t their oil to begin with,” I explain. “They’ll have to give it back.”

“How much is that going to cost them?”

The question surprises me. “Are you worried about the Kinseys right now?”

Mom glances at the will and then up at me. “It’s not just them. The whole town will point fingers at us. No one will think we deserve this money.”

I’m so shocked by her words, I can’t even think of a response.

Mom keeps shaking her head. “Mr. Clay only gave that property to me so his kids wouldn’t have to pay a lot in taxes. If not for that, he would have wanted them to have it.”

---