Grandpa turned toward him.
“Misunderstanding?”
Then he opened the small green notebook resting beside his plate.
“November 26, 2020. Thanksgiving dinner. You spent twenty minutes telling your wife that my combine would bring at least sixty thousand dollars at auction. You said you wanted the keys before I died so you could sell it without dealing with the other family members.”
Gary’s face lost its color.
“That was just a conversation.”
“Yes,” Grandpa replied. “A conversation you had about selling my property while I was sitting three feet away.”
Nobody moved.
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