STOLEN FORTUNE: THE RISE OF ETHAN BLACKWELL

Chapter 7: The Theft

The bus let Ethan off four blocks from the Orlando estate, the same as always.

Ethan walked the familiar route with his head down and his hands in his front pockets. The houses grew larger as he walked. The cars parked along the curbs grew newer. The noise of downtown fell away behind him, replaced by the sound of sprinklers and the distant bark of a dog and the low hum of central air conditioning units mounted on the sides of houses that cost more than most people would earn in a lifetime.

His left hand pressed once against the outside of his right back pocket as he walked, a motion that had already become involuntary in the hour since he'd left the café.

Still there.

He turned the last corner and the Orlando estate came into view at the end of the block, and he slowed his pace without meaning to.

The house was large by any reasonable standard. A two-story colonial with a wide front lawn and a circular driveway and white columns flanking the front entrance that had always struck Ethan as the kind of architectural detail people chose when they wanted to make sure you understood their status before you even knocked on the door. The windows on the ground floor were lit. He could see the blue flicker of a television through the gauze curtains of the front sitting room. Someone was home. More than one someone, probably.

He stopped walking altogether when he reached the side entrance. He stood at the gate and did not open it.

The iron bar was cold under his hand. He gripped it and stood there and looked at the light coming from the kitchen window above the service path, a warm yellow rectangle cut into the side of the house, and he thought about what was waiting for him on the other side of that door.

Rodriguez.

He had left that morning with a specific assignment. Go to ge labor market, earn enough money to collect Rodriguez's dry-cleaned clothes, and then come back home by noon with an extra sixty dollars.

But he had done none of it.

He had spent the morning trying to sort out his ID. He had stood in lines. He had sold off his phone and his wedding ring in order to pay for the renewal for his ID, and everything that was supposed to happen today had not happened.

There was no dryclean. There was no cash. There was no sixty dollars.

There was only the ticket in his back pocket and the copy in the other, and if he walked through that gate right now with both of them on his person, and Rodriguez decided to make an example of him in front of the old man, which he sometimes did when Ethan failed a task, then the search that followed might turn up both pieces of paper before Ethan had found a way to protect them.

He could not let that happen.

He stood at the gate a moment longer, his fingers loosening on the iron bar, and he thought about it carefully.

He needed to hide them first.

Both of them.

He needed a place on the property, somewhere he could access later without drawing attention, somewhere that made sense for him to be without explanation. His room was the first thought, but his room wasn't really his room. It was the family's storage room, and Rodriguez had a key. Even Mr. Orlando sometimes sent someone in to check. There was no privacy there, not really, not for something this important.

Then his thoughts moved to the garage at the back of the property. Ethan went in there sometimes to fetch tools. Nobody thought twice about him being in the garage. He could hide both the fake and the original tickets there tonight. Just for tonight.

Tomorrow he would figure out the rest.

Ethan released the gate and stepped away from it. Then he moved along the outside of the hedge, heading toward the back of the property where another gate led to the driveway beside the garage.

He moved quickly, but he did not run.

His footsteps were light on the concrete, and he kept his breathing steady. When he reached the back gate, he carefully lifted the latch. He did it slowly and quietly, like someone who had spent years learning how not to make noise in this house.

The back of the property was dark.

The motion light above the back door had stopped working two weeks earlier, and no one had bothered to fix it. Tonight, Ethan was thankful for that darkness.

He crossed the driveway in a few quick steps and reached the small side door of the garage.

He turned the handle.

The door opened.

Ethan slipped inside and quietly pulled the door shut behind him.

The garage was dim. The only light came from a faint orange glow shining through a small window high above the workbench.

He walked toward the metal shelving unit.

He immediately saw the space he remembered — the narrow gap between the lowest shelf and the floor. It was only a few inches high, but it was enough to slide something flat inside.

Ethan crossed the garage floor quickly, stepping around a coiled garden hose. Then he crouched down in front of the shelves.

Slowly, he reached behind him and slipped his hand into his right back pocket.

One of the folded tickets was there.

His fingers closed around the paper, and he began to pull it out.

But a thought stopped him.

He still didn't know which ticket was the real one.

At the café, he had been careful. He had placed the original ticket in one pocket and the photocopy in the other. But since then, he had checked his pockets so many times, pressing the fabric from the outside, making sure they were still there.

Now he wasn't completely sure he hadn't moved one of them without realizing it.

His heart beat a little faster.

He needed to check.

He needed to look at both tickets under the light and confirm which one was the original before deciding which one to hide and which one to keep with him.

Ethan slowly pulled the folded paper from his right pocket and began to open it.

“Ethan.”

The sound of his name struck him like a sudden hand grabbing his shoulder.

He froze.

He didn’t stand up. He didn’t turn around.

He remained crouched on the garage floor with the paper half-unfolded in his hand. Every muscle in his body went stiff. For two long seconds, he did not even breathe.

The voice had come from behind him.

From the direction of the door.

And it was not Rodriguez.

It was Mr. Orlando.

Ethan’s fingers tightened around the paper. The fold pressed into the center of his palm. Slowly, he closed his fist around it, crushing the paper inside his hand.

Then he stood up and turned.

Mr. Orlando stood near the side door of the garage, one hand resting on the doorframe.

He was a large man, wide through the chest and shoulders even in his early sixties. His silver hair was combed neatly back. He wore a dark polo shirt and gray slacks, as if he had either just returned from somewhere or was about to leave.

He had probably noticed the garage door slightly open as he walked past.

Now he was looking directly at Ethan.

His expression was calm, but not friendly. It was the kind of look that sat somewhere between curiosity and suspicion.

Ethan quickly lowered his head.

“Good evening, sir,” he said quietly, keeping his voice steady.

“Good evening,” Mr. Orlando replied.

But there was no warmth in his tone.

He stayed where he was in the doorway. His eyes slowly moved over Ethan, from his face down to his hands.

“What are you doing in here?”

Inside, Ethan’s mind began racing.

His heart was pounding hard against his ribs. He was sure the sound must be obvious, like a drum beating inside his chest. He forced himself to remain still, afraid that even the smallest movement might betray him.

“I came to look for a small wrench, sir,” Ethan said carefully. “The one Mr. Rodriguez mentioned last week. For the storage room door handle. I thought I might find it here.”

The lie was simple.

A week earlier there had been a conversation about the storage room door. The handle had been loose, and Rodriguez had mentioned that a wrench set was probably somewhere in the garage.

Mr. Orlando said nothing.

He just looked at Ethan.

Seconds passed.

Then his eyes slowly dropped to Ethan’s right hand.

The closed fist.

Mr. Orlando straightened slightly and stepped away from the doorframe. He walked deeper into the garage, moving around the covered car with the natural confidence of a man walking through his own property.

He stopped about five feet in front of Ethan.

Now his attention was fixed entirely on Ethan’s hand.

His expression had changed.

The uncertainty was gone.

What remained now was clear suspicion.

“Open your hand,” he said flatly.

Ethan’s heart seemed to stop.

He could feel the paper pressed tightly against his palm. His hand had begun to sweat, and the moisture was slowly softening the folded edge of the ticket.

But he still didn’t know which one it was.

He had been about to check when the voice behind him stopped him.

If he opened his hand now, and the ticket inside was the real one, then it would be over. The real ticket would be in Mr. Orlando’s hands.

The photocopy was still in his other back pocket.

But a copy meant nothing.

A copy was just paper.

A copy would be useless in a claims office.

He could not open his hand.

Ethan stood there, his fingers locked tight around the paper. Sweat gathered in his palm. His chest rose and fell as he struggled to control his breathing.

He looked at Mr. Orlando’s face.

There was no softness in it.

No patience left.

“Sir, it’s nothing. I just—”

“Ethan.”

His name snapped through the air like something breaking.

All patience was gone now.

“Open your hand,” Mr. Orlando said sharply. “Right now.”

Before Ethan could respond, the side door of the garage suddenly swung open again.

Rodriguez walked in.

He was wearing a white T-shirt and basketball shorts. His face carried the usual bored expression he wore when nothing around him seemed worth his attention.

He first looked at his father.

Then his eyes moved to Ethan.

The moment he sensed the tension in the room, the boredom disappeared.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking between them.

“Your man here is hiding something in his hand,” Mr. Orlando said in a low growl, never taking his eyes off Ethan. “And he refuses to show me what it is.”

Rodriguez walked across the garage with slow, easy steps until he stood beside his father.

He studied Ethan carefully.

There was a faint expression on his face now; not quite amusement, not quite contempt, but something unpleasant sitting somewhere between the two.

“Open your palm, Ethan,” Rodriguez said quietly. His voice had dropped in a way that was more threatening than shouting would have been.

Ethan looked at him.

He looked at the older man.

He looked at the floor for just a second, because there was nowhere else to look, no exit, no alternative, no version of this moment that ended with him walking out of the garage with the paper still in his fist.

He was cornered.

He opened his hand.

The paper sat in his damp palm, creased and slightly crumpled from the tightness of his grip. Mr. Orlando reached forward without hesitation and plucked it from his hand with two fingers. He took a step back and unfolded it slowly.

He looked at it.

Rodriguez moved closer to his father and looked over his shoulder at the paper.

The garage was very quiet.

Ethan watched their faces.

He watched the silence stretch. He watched Mr. Orlando's eyes move across the page in the slow, careful way of a man who is reading something twice because he does not trust his own first reading. He watched Rodriguez's head tilt forward, just slightly, as he took in whatever was printed there.

And then he saw it happen.

Rodriguez took his hand and pressed it flat against the top of his own head. He took a full step backward. He pressed both hands against his head now and stared at the paper from a distance and then he turned away from it completely, turned in a full circle, and when he came back around his eyes were wide and bright and slightly wild.

"Dad," he breathed.

"I see it," Mr. Orlando replied tersely, his voice tight with the effort of composure.

Rodriguez turned away again, turned another full circle, pressed both palms against the top of his skull as though trying to hold his thoughts inside his head, stared at the ceiling, looked at the paper again, then snapped his gaze to Ethan with a look that was equal parts shock and hunger.

Mr. Orlando lowered the paper slowly and stared hard at Ethan.

“Where did you steal this from?” he asked coldly. “Who did you take it from?”

“I bought it,” Ethan replied.

“You bought it?” Mr. Orlando repeated, sounding like he didn’t believe a single word.

Ethan nodded. “Yes. I bought it on Thursday evening.”

Rodriguez suddenly stepped forward.

“With what money?” he asked sharply. “You can’t even buy a bottle of water without asking my sister for money. So where did you get the money for a lottery ticket?”

He turned to his father before Ethan could answer.

“Dad, he must have stolen the money,” Rodriguez said confidently. “There’s no way someone like him could buy a ticket like this. He stole from this family. That means the ticket belongs to us.”

“I didn’t steal anything!” Ethan shouted.

The anger in his voice surprised even him.

For three years, Ethan had kept quiet. He had always lowered his head, spoken politely, and avoided arguments. But this time his anger broke through.

Before he could say anything else...

Smack!

Mr. Orlando slapped him hard across the face. The hit was strong and sudden. Ethan’s head snapped to the side, and a loud ringing filled his ear. For a moment he couldn’t hear anything. Pain spread quickly across his cheek. He stumbled to the right and grabbed a nearby shelf to stop himself from falling.

Mr. Orlando stepped closer.

“Rodriguez is right,” the old man said firmly. “You used money from this house to buy that ticket. And anything bought with money from this house belongs to this house.”

He looked at Ethan with cold eyes.

“That is simple logic. Any sensible man would understand that.”

Ethan’s cheek still burned, but he forced himself to speak.

“That ticket is mine,” he said, though his voice was shaking.

Rodriguez moved quickly.

His fist slammed into Ethan’s stomach.

The punch landed hard just below Ethan’s ribs. All the air rushed out of Ethan’s lungs at once.

Ethan’s legs gave way.

He dropped to one knee on the concrete floor, both hands hitting the ground. He bent forward, trying to breathe, but no air came. For several seconds, he simply couldn’t breathe at all.

Then a hand grabbed the back of his head.

Rodriguez had grabbed his hair.

He pulled Ethan’s head up roughly until Ethan was forced to look upward at him. The bright fluorescent light behind Rodriguez made his face look dark and sharp.

Rodriguez looked down at Ethan silently for a moment.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and soft.

“Three years,” he said quietly. “We fed you for three years, Ethan. Do you know what that means? We gave you a bed. We gave you work. We gave you a place to live.”

He glanced toward his father.

“My father could have thrown you out long ago,” Rodriguez continued. “And no one would have blamed him. But he didn’t. Because he is generous.”

He looked back at Ethan.

“You were nothing when you came here. Just a useless man we helped out of pity. “So whatever that ticket is worth, think of it as your way of thanking us.”

His voice grew colder.

“Think of it as the first payment toward the three years you owe this family.”

Rodriguez suddenly released Ethan’s hair and shoved his head forward.

Ethan remained on his knees.

One hand was flat on the concrete floor. He stared at the ground between his hands and slowly breathed through his nose. He didn’t say anything.

Above him, Mr. Orlando spoke again.

“Have you gone to the lottery office yet?”

His voice sounded different now. The anger was gone. Now he sounded calm, like a businessman discussing an important matter.

Ethan looked up slowly.

The old man was holding the paper loosely in one hand, watching Ethan with an expression that was almost clinical.

Ethan shook his head. "No," he said hoarsely. "I haven't claimed anything yet."

Mr. Orlando glanced at his son.

Something passed between them in that look, quick and wordless, the private shorthand of two people who have been reading each other for decades.

Rodriguez's grin broke wide and slow across his face. It was the grin of a man watching a problem dissolve right in front of him. He put both hands back on top of his head, laughed once with pure and unguarded joy, and then turned to his father with his eyes lit up like a man who has just stepped out of a dark room into sunlight.

"We're rich, Dad," he said, the laugh still in his voice. "We are going to be so absolutely, ridiculously rich."

"We are," Mr. Orlando agreed warmly, something loosening in his face for the first time, a genuine and unguarded pleasure spreading across his features. "We need to go inside and tell your mother. And Olivia."

Rodriguez was already turning toward the door, moving the way people move when they cannot contain what is inside them.

Mr. Orlando looked at Ethan one last time. Then he folded the paper crisply, tucked it into the pocket of his slacks, and followed his son out of the garage without another word.

The door swung shut.