Chapter 9 - The Knock on the Door
A week before Thanksgiving, a heavy snow fell over Denver.
Samuel and I were sitting in our living room. A warm fire crackled in the brick fireplace. The room smelled of pine, roasted turkey, and old paper.
Samuel was sitting at his drafting table in the corner, designing a new public library for the city of Boulder.
Outside, the wind howled down the street, rattling the double-paned glass windows.
At 4:15 p.m., a soft, hesitated knock sounded at our front door.
I looked at Samuel. We weren't expecting any visitors.
Samuel set his pencil down, picked up his ash cane, and walked beside me into the hallway.
I pulled the heavy oak door open.
Standing on the porch, bathed in the orange glow of our porch light, was Garrett Weston.
He wasn't wearing his expensive cashmere cardigan.
He wore an old, ill-fitting wool coat with a frayed collar. His dark hair was entirely white, brushed back loosely against his scalp. His face was thin, gaunt, lined by deep tracks of exhaustion and humiliation.
Beside him stood no driver. No lawyers. No sisters.
He stood alone in the cold snow, holding a single, worn leather briefcase containing his personal papers.
He looked at me.
Then his eyes shifted slowly to Samuel, taking in the warm, elegant hallway, the framed architectural awards hanging on the wall, and the quiet dignity of the man standing beside me.
Garrett Weston swallowed hard. His lower lip trembled slightly in the freezing wind.
“Hannah,” my father whispered, his voice small, raspy, completely broken. “I... I have nowhere else to go. The bank locked the gates at the estate two hours ago.”
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He looked down at his old leather shoes, soaked through with slush.
“Can I come in?”
