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little hitch. Your mother is the executor of this trust.” Old Deborah took a deep breath and closed her eyes, scrunching up her wrinkled face. “I might not have shared that piece of knowledge with her.”
    “What? Mom doesn’t know? Why not?” It wasn’t in Old Deborah’s nature to deceive anyone.
    Old Deborah opened her eyes. “Your grandfather put a condition in the will—as long as your mother wasn’t using drugs, wasn’t in jail, the house could go to her first. That was the condition until you turned twenty-one. Your grandfather asked me to use my judgment about when your mother should be informed about the will. So I kept waiting for the right moment to share it with her. I wanted to make sure she was truly freed from her drug habit . . .”
    “But she never has been.”
    “No, not for long.” She offered up a smile, but it didn’t travel to her eyes. “Not yet, anyway.”
    Not ever, Chris thought. His grandfather must have thought so too. Why else would he create such a will? He knew that Grace Mitchell would spend her life skirting in and out of jail or rehab. Or both.
    “I think it’s time to go back to Stoney Ridge. This winter, you’ll be twenty-one. Your mother is . . . indisposed. The house was meant for you and Jenny.”
    Chris fingered the cold metal key. A simple little door key that unlocked so many memories. “Stoney Ridge? Go back to my grandfather’s house?”
    “Yes. This is your chance to start a life of your own.” She covered his hand with hers. Her hand was so small and fragile compared to his work-roughened one, but it was powerfulin its own way. Like the rudder of a ship. “Chris, one thing I have learned over the years—your mother may not be able to be a good mother, but she does love you and your sister. Her problems get in the way of that love. Lord only knows I wish your upbringing had been different, but maybe you had an extraordinary upbringing, because it has made you an extraordinary young man.”
    He had trusted Old Deborah in every way, and though she was gone, he trusted her judgment even now. After her funeral, the very next morning, before news of Old Deborah’s passing had time to spread outside of the Amish community, he had quietly packed their few belongings, and he and Jenny set off for Stoney Ridge in Lancaster County to claim their inheritance. He felt bad that he hadn’t said goodbye to the friends who had been so kind to him and Jenny—the Troyers, especially—but the fewer people who knew where they were headed, the better. He didn’t want any news of Stoney Ridge to trickle to his mother. Not now. Not until late January, after his birthday.
    What a crazy thing he had done! Traveling the back roads of Ohio and Pennsylvania with a horse and buggy. It took weeks! Many days, they only covered twenty to thirty miles, and on Sundays, they stayed put. It didn’t matter how long it took—Chris wasn’t going to jeopardize Samson’s well-being. And time was one thing he had plenty of.
    Finally, the day came when they arrived in Stoney Ridge. The little town hadn’t changed much. The Sweet Tooth Bakery was still on the corner of Main Street, across from the post office and the brick bank. They walked down Main Street and he knew, instinctively, to turn right down Stone Leaf Drive, as if he’d never left. When he came to the lane that led to the house, he stopped and took a deep breath.
    Jenny looked up at him. “Did you forget where it is? Has it been too long?”
    He shook his head. “I didn’t forget.” From Ohio—a four-week trip. From his childhood—an eternity.
    They walked up the lane and turned into a cracked and crumbling concrete driveway that led to the house. The property wasn’t large—it was surrounded by farmland.
    “Here it is, Jenny.”
    “Yuck.”
    “Hello?” he called out softly.
    All was quiet. The house was deserted and looked it. The clapboard frame of the house was just the way he remembered it—brownish gray