Found Money by James Grippando

television—except that Brent had no job. Ryan had never been thrilled with Sarah’s choice of a mate, but five years ago she’d panicked, nearly forty years old and never married. She’d latched onto Brent, good looking and nine years younger, winning him over by playing his live-in maidservant. Now she was forty-something and pregnant, stuck with a shell of a man who slept off a hangover every morning as his pregnant wife trudged off to work at Wal-Mart for minimum wage.
    “You were here earlier, weren’t you?” asked Ryan.
    “Yup. Waited over an hour for you.”
    Ryan noticed the empty beer bottles on the kitchen table. He counted eight. “Way to go, buddy,” he said with sarcasm. “I see you’re cutting back.”
    Brent’s face was flushed. He was clearly buzzed. He offered Ryan his half-empty bottle. “Want some?”
    Ryan pushed it away, his tone harsh. “What were you doing here?”
    He went to the refrigerator, got himself a fresh beer. The head went back, the bottle was emptied. Twelve ounces in twelve seconds. He wiped his chin, then looked at Ryan. “Looking for the money.”
    The word hit like a sledgehammer, but Ryan kept a straight face. “What money?”
    “Don’t play dumb on me. Sarah told me.”
    Ryan flushed with anger. Good ol’ Sarah, always great with secrets. “What about it?”
    “I need fifty thousand dollars. And I gotta have it tonight.”
    “What for?”
    “None of your damn business, that’s what for. It’s Sarah’s money. And I want it.”
    “Sarah and I had a deal. Neither one of us takes any of the money until we know exactly where it came from.”
    Brent’s eyes narrowed. “How do we know you haven’t already spent it?”
    “You’re just going to have to trust me.”
    “I’m still trusting your ass for nine hundred and fifty thousand. Just give me the fucking fifty grand.”
    “No. Who do you think you are, Brent? Coming into my mother’s house, looking for money.”
    He rose, threatening. “It’s Sarah’s money. Give it to me!”
    “I said no.”
    Brent wobbled toward him. “Give me the fucking money, man, or I’ll—”
    Ryan silenced him with a steely glare. “Or what, Brent?”
    Brent knew better than to take on Ryan drunk. Still, he had a crazed look in his eyes, as if the eight empty beers on the table were merely a footnote to a full day binge. “Or,” he said with a slur, “I may be forced to hit a pregnant woman.”
    Something snapped in Ryan. He lunged forward and grabbed him by the throat, knocking him to the floor. “I told you I’d kill you, Brent! You ever touched her again, I’d fucking kill you!”
    Brent wriggled and clawed, trying to break Ryan’s grip around his throat. His face was turning blue. Ryan squeezed harder, spurred by the memory of stitching up his own sister after the blows from her husband. He should have settled the score then, but Sarah begged him not to.
    “Ry-an,” Brent was wheezing, barely conscious. His eyes were bulging.
    Ryan stopped, suddenly realizing what he was doing.
    Brent pushed him off and rolled on his side, coughing and gasping for air. “You coulda killed me, you crazy bastard.”
    Ryan was shaking. He could have killed him.
    Brent rose slowly, whining pathetically, a drunk on a crying jag. “I want my money. I need it, bad. Please, Ryan, I gotta have it.”
    Ryan’s hands were shaking. Since the funeral, all anyone talked about was money. Liz would divorce him for it. Brent would beat his sister for it. And Amy—who the hell knew what she was up to.
    “You want it?” he said bitterly. “Fine. I’ll give you the damn money. Wait here.” He stormed out of the room and raced upstairs, gobbling up two and three steps at a time. He yanked down the ladder to the attic and climbed up. He went straight to the old dresser and shoved it aside. In seconds he popped the floorboard and grabbed a bundle of bills—a few thousand, easy, but he didn’t even count it. He scurried back down the ladder