“I haven’t decided what I’m doing,” I said, which was only half a lie.
Vivian sat down on the edge of my couch like she was afraid it might stain her coat. She looked tired. Under the makeup, there were shadows beneath her eyes I’d never seen before.
“Em, I know Dad was harsh on the phone.”
“He called me an embarrassment.”
She winced. “He didn’t mean it like that.”
“How else could he mean it, Viv?”
She didn’t answer. She turned the coffee cup in her hands, around and around.
“Derek’s really important to me,” she finally said. “And this deal is important to Derek. His firm, Hartwell Strategic, they’re trying to land a contract for logistics software. Supply tracking for bases overseas. If he gets in front of General Vance, it could change everything.”
“For Derek.”
“For us.” She looked up. “Derek’s bringing me in as a founding partner. Dad’s investing so I can have a real stake. Not just be the girlfriend. An actual equity position.”
I set my coffee down very carefully. “Dad’s investing?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged like it was nothing. “Three hundred thousand. He’s getting a loan or something. He said he had it handled.”
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure she could hear it.
“A loan against what, Viv?”
She frowned, confused by my tone. “I don’t know. The house, I think? He said it was basically free money because the house is paid off. Why does it matter?”
I looked at my little sister. The girl who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms. The girl who cried for three days when our dog died. She genuinely didn’t know.
“Did Dad tell you the house is in Mom’s trust?” I asked. “That it belongs to both of us?”
“Sort of. But he’s the trustee. He makes the decisions.”
“Not about this. He needs both of us to sign off.”
Vivian blinked. “I signed something. In August. He brought it over to the condo with a bunch of other papers.”
“Did you read it?”
Her face went pink. “Em, come on. Nobody reads that stuff.”
“Did he ask you where I was? Whether I’d signed?”
“He said he’d take care of your part. He said you gave him power of attorney before you left.” She tilted her head. “Didn’t you?”
I stood up and walked to the window because I didn’t trust what my face was doing.
Outside, a garbage truck was backing down the alley, beeping. Normal Boston. Normal Tuesday afternoon. And my father had used my name to put my mother’s house on the line for a man none of us really knew.
“I gave him power of attorney for my car,” I said, still facing the window. “And my lease. That’s it. I never agreed to borrow money against Mom’s house. I was in a combat zone on August 14th, Viv. I didn’t even have cell service.”
Behind me, it was very quiet.
“That can’t be right,” Vivian said.
I turned around. “I have a letter from Mr. Brennan. Do you want to read it?”
She didn’t move. Then, slowly, she held out her hand.
I gave her the letter. I watched her read it. I watched the color leave her face, the same way it would leave our father’s face three days later, though neither of us knew that yet.
“He told me it was fine,” she whispered. “He told me everyone had signed.”
“I know.”
“Em, Derek’s expecting that money Friday. The papers for my partnership are already drawn up. If it doesn’t come through…” She stopped. Her eyes filled. “Oh my God. What did he do?”
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.