I spent that night at a little motel off the highway outside Carmona. I didn’t confront Derek. Inez told me not to. More importantly, my parents asked me not to.
The next morning at nine, I took Mom and Dad to breakfast at a diner downtown.
For the first time in months, my mother ate at a real table without asking anybody’s permission.
That thought nearly ruined the meal for me.
But my parents didn’t want anger. They wanted clarity.
At ten-fifteen, Inez arrived at Dad’s workshop with two folders and a laptop. She hugged Mom, shook Dad’s hand, and got right to work.
“The house is safe,” she said. “And the financial power of attorney can be revoked today.”
Mom let out a long breath.
Inez turned her laptop around. A spreadsheet.
Over fourteen months, I’d sent fifty-six thousand dollars.
Not all of it was gone. But a big chunk had moved through payments connected to Derek. Equipment rental. A commercial lease. Lumber and materials. Insurance.
And one line labeled Cambridge Restoration Escrow.
“What is that?” I asked.
“That’s the interesting part,” Inez said. “Three months ago, twenty-eight thousand dollars landed in that escrow account. Not your money. It came from a client. A company called Bellweather Hospitality. They hired Derek to restore furniture for a hotel. If those invoices are real, it’s the biggest contract he’s ever had.”
“How big?” Mom asked.
“Potentially enough to pay back everything he took.”
I sat back in my chair.
That didn’t erase what Derek had done.
But again, the story refused to become simple.
That afternoon, Dad finally agreed to take me to Derek’s shop. We went without calling first.
It was behind a row of antique stores near the old railroad depot. The big door was open.
I walked inside and stopped.
Twelve dining chairs lined up along one wall. A huge carved oak sideboard under work lamps. Cabinet doors on padded tables.
And in the middle of it all stood my brother.
Dust mask hanging around his neck. Sawdust all over his shirt. One of Dad’s old hand planes in his hands.
Derek looked at me. Then at Dad.
Nobody said anything.
He set the plane down.
“So you came.”
“I came three days ago.”
His face tightened.
“You saw the house.”
“I saw the storage room, Derek.”
He looked ashamed.
That mattered more to me than I expected.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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