Chapter 7 - The Clock Runs Out
At 8:45 AM on Friday, Aaron and I were sitting in Greg’s conference room.
On the mahogany table sat two piles of paper: on the left, the formal criminal referral addressed to the Special Investigations Unit of the Marion County Prosecutor; on the right, the civil complaint demanding restitution, statutory triple damages for fraud, and attorney's fees totaling seventy-eight thousand dollars.
Greg sat behind his laptop, refreshing the escrow account balance every two minutes.
"Nothing yet," Greg said, checking his watch. "8:47."
"Will she really let it go to the prosecutor?" Aaron asked. "She’s stubborn, but she's obsessed with her reputation."
"Narcissists always believe they can talk their way out of a burning building until the roof falls on them," Greg said dryly. "She probably thinks we’re bluffing. She thinks family doesn't sue family."
At 8:54, the conference room phone chimed.
Greg hit the speaker button. "Greg Miller."
"Greg? It's Richard."
My dad's voice was different than it had been two days ago. The confusion was gone; it was replaced by a grim, bone-weary exhaustion.
"Morning, Uncle Richard," Greg said carefully. "Kendra and Aaron are here with me."
There was a heavy pause on the line. I could hear the faint click of a grandfather clock ticking behind him.
"Kendra," Dad said.
"I'm here, Dad."
"I signed the emergency listing agreement for the Freeman lot yesterday afternoon," he said. "A developer out of Lafayette offered twenty-eight thousand cash to close in thirty days so he can clear it for boat storage."
My breath caught in my throat. "Dad..."
"I didn't know, honey," Dad's voice cracked, and a deep, wet sob broke through his chest. "I swear to Almighty God, I didn't know. When she came home with that cashier's check five years ago, she told me the hospital had forgiven the bill through a grant and told her to keep the church collection for Theo’s rehabilitation equipment. She told me she was saving it for his college."
"She didn't save it, Dad," I whispered.
"I know," he choked out. "I looked through her desk last night while she was at Mallory's. I found the bank statements. I found the receipts for the trailer renovations. I found... I found a credit card bill from that same week in 2019. Two thousand dollars at Nordstrom for clothes and jewelry."
He stopped to catch his breath. The shame in his voice was so heavy it felt like it was sitting in the room with us.
"The sale won't close for three weeks," Dad continued, pulling himself together with visible effort. "So I took a loan against my pension this morning at the credit union. The wire transfer for twenty-five thousand dollars was sent to Greg’s escrow account ten minutes ago."
Greg looked up at his monitor. He tapped a key, leaned forward, and nodded at me.
*Incoming Wire Confirmed: $25,000.00.*
"It's here, Richard," Greg said quietly.
"Is the criminal complaint stopped?" Dad asked. "Will they keep her name out of the paper?"
Greg looked at me, leaving the answer in my hands.
I closed my eyes. I saw my mother’s face when she pulled down Theo’s silver stars. I heard her calling me a bitter, difficult spirit in front of our entire extended family.
But then I thought of my dad—a man who worked thirty-eight years on oil rigs and assembly lines, whose knuckles were swollen from arthritis, taking a loan against his pension at sixty-six years old to pay for his wife's theft.
"If she signs the restitution agreement admitting the debt, and if she signs a permanent no-contact order regarding Theo," I said, "I won't file the police report."
Dad let out a long, ragged exhale that sounded like a tire deflating. "She'll sign it. She's sitting in the kitchen right now with her bags packed. She's moving into Mallory's basement."
"What?" I asked.
"I told her to leave, Kendra," Dad said simply. "A man can forgive a lot of things. A man can forgive bad tempers, and sharp words, and lost tempers. But I cannot sleep in the same bed with a woman who stole bread from our grandson's table while he was dying."
The line went silent for a moment.
"I'm sorry, Kendra," Dad whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't protect you."
May you like
"It's okay, Dad," I said, a tear finally escaping my eye and running down my cheek. "You're protecting him now."
***