**The Granddaughter**
Emily had only fallen asleep as dawn approached. When she opened her eyes, sunlight filled the room, and standing by the bed was William, smiling.
“I waited for you all night. Where were you?”
“Little one, see? Nothing happened to me. Get yourself ready, we’ll go out for breakfast,” William said.
Outside, the air was warm and summery.
“Fancy an ice cream?” Without waiting for an answer, William walked over to the stall and bought Emily’s favourite—vanilla in a waffle cone.
“You’re in a good mood. Did you win at cards?” Emily asked, licking the top of her ice cream.
“Wrong guess. I’ve had an idea. And I’ll need your help to pull it off.”
“But you’ve never involved me before. What do I have to do?”
“Nothing. Just be there. But if you don’t want to, I’ll manage alone.”
“No, I’ll come,” Emily quickly agreed.
“I knew you would. Go pick out a white dress,” William said indulgently, his mood light.
“Really? Are you proposing?” The girl beamed, even forgetting the melting ice cream in her hand.
No woman had ever dared hint at marriage with William. But Emily was different. She’d become his lucky charm. A year ago, he’d saved her from three thugs.
Emily had lived with her mother in a small town. After her father left, her mother turned to drink. Things got worse when she brought a man home, announcing he’d be living with them. The man eyed Emily with unmistakable interest, and one night, he tried to force himself into her bed. She escaped, caught a train, and ended up in London.
No money, no family in the city. What now? Where to go? Her lost expression drew the attention of a group of lads always lurking at the station, hunting for easy targets. It could’ve ended badly, but William heard her screams and chased them off. They’d been together ever since.
Emily had fallen for him—tall, fit, well-dressed, handsome, and charming, he exuded trust. She felt safe with him, even though he’d never hidden his shady dealings. But he kept her out of it.
They sat on a bench by the Thames. The ice cream melted in the sun, the cone soggy, sticky syrup dripping onto her wrist and spotting her dress.
“Damn it!” Emily jumped up, holding the ice cream away to avoid more stains.
“Just chuck it,” William said lazily, squinting like a contented cat.
She tossed the ruined cone into a bin and licked her fingers clean. *Still such a child*, William thought fondly.
“This job’s a sure thing, but we can’t afford mistakes. A bloke with a fiancée’s more convincing than me alone.”
“Fiancée?” Emily sat back down.
“That’s you.” William draped an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him.
“Yesterday, I heard about an old woman, a bit senile. No family—husband long gone, only son killed in Afghanistan years ago. She forgets he’s dead, still waits for him evenings. Never takes off her ring. Bet she’s got more hidden away. Her husband wasn’t some nobody.”
“You want to steal her jewels?” Emily guessed.
“No fuss. She’ll hand them over. We’ll show up as her grandson and his bride. Your job’s to charm her into gifting you the sparklies.”
William had principles. Emily pitied the old woman. Cheating corrupt officials was one thing, but scamming a lonely, trusting pensioner? She hesitated.
“Get a modest dress she’ll like,” William said, oblivious.
“What if she realises? What if you don’t look like her son?”
“Her memory’s shot, and she hasn’t seen him in years.”
Two days later, they stood before a steel door on the third floor of an old brick building. William gave Emily a final inspection—demure, perfect. He, as always, was polished and charming.
“Keep quiet, yeah?”
She nodded.
He rang the bell. Shuffling steps, then the lock clicked. Emily expected a frail old woman, but the door opened to a petite lady in an old-fashioned dress, lace collar, silver hair pinned with a black bow.
“Can I help you?” She squinted nearsightedly.
“You, if you’re Margaret Eleanor Whitmore. This’ll sound strange, but I’m your grandson,” William said gravely.
“I… don’t understand. My son never married. You’re mistaken.”
“Mind if we come in?” William flashed his disarming smile—it never failed.
“Of course.” Margaret stepped aside.
William entered, pausing before a framed photo of a young man in military dress.
“Mum’s got another one, from Sandhurst.” He turned back. “Still confused?”
“I’m from Salisbury. Your son trained there, didn’t he? Mum met him months before graduation. When he left, she realised she was pregnant. No letters, no calls—she thought he’d abandoned her. Never told me about him. Till recently. I found you, learned he died a hero…”
Margaret gasped, sinking into a chair, tears welling.
“My James…” she whispered.
“Mum named me James too.”
Emily watched, wide-eyed. He lied so convincingly, even she nearly believed it. Margaret, enchanted, fetched an album, showing photos of her son from childhood.
Emily fought tears. To have a father like that, a grandmother like this… Her mother wouldn’t drink, wouldn’t bring strangers home. She noticed William barely glanced at the pictures—of course, it was just a role.
Suddenly, she didn’t want this. How could they? Every part of her revolted. She wanted to protect this woman who’d lost her only child. William caught her look and understood.
“Oh, where are my manners? You’ve just arrived. Where’s your luggage?”
“At the hotel. We’ve hardly got anything. Just here for a couple of days,” William—*James*—said.
“Your own grandson, staying in a hotel? No, you’ll stay here.”
“Work calls, Gran. I’m all she’s got. Plus, the wedding’s coming. So much to do. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“James never knew he had a son. Your mum?”
“Remarried, divorced. Thought he’d abandoned her.” William smoothly painted his fictional father as flawed but himself worthy of love.
“Of course.” Margaret stood. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
“We brought cake, sweets, fruit.” Emily fetched the bags. “Let me help.”
“No, no, rest. I’m not *that* old.”
“Em, don’t pity her. It’s just business,” William hissed once Margaret was in the kitchen. “Don’t mess this up. We’re not robbing her. Saw that ring? Get her to show the rest. Easier for you.”
Margaret served tea, sharing her grief over losing James, asking about his life in Salisbury. William spun tales, playing the grandson to perfection.
“Were you a teacher?” Emily blurted.
“Yes. Forty years at St. Mary’s—English and literature.”
“You remind me of mine. She wore a big emerald ring. And a brooch—round, with a sapphire centre and little diamonds around it. I always stared at it.”
“My husband gave me the ring. The brooch…” She left, returning with it.
“Like this?”
William’s eyes gleamed. “May I?” He took it, fingers trembling.
“Heavy, I rarely wore it. This is for you.” Margaret handed Emily a ring. “Should fit. It’s a diamond. My wedding gift.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Take it,” Margaret insisted. William’s glare burned into her.
Emily slid it on. A perfect fit.
“Thank you. I’ll never take it off.” Tears brimmed.
*See? More where that came from*, William’s look said.
“You rest, I’ll pop to the shops.”
“No, we’ll go. Just tell us where.”
“I’ll write a list, give you money—”
“Not a chance. I’m here to see my gran, not rob her.”
Outside, Emily asked, “Why not stay? Search the place while she’s out.”
“And have her tell the neighbours about her grandson? Someone’d call the police. Can’t let her talk to them. We leave, they’ll never find us.”
Back at the flat, Margaret cooked while Emily chopped salad. From the bedroom came clicks of opening drawers.
After dinner, William “went for a walk.” Emily stayed, chatting, until Margaret brought out a jewellery box. Gems glittered—rubies, emeralds, pearls.
“My husband’s gifts. Where would I wear them? Take them, dear.”
“No, I can’t—”
“I’ll die, strangers will take them. Keep them in the family. Just don’t tell JamesEmily buried the jewels in the garden that night, and when William vanished without a trace weeks later, she and Margaret planted roses over the spot, their shared secret blooming in silence.
