He looked ashamed.
That mattered more to me than I expected.
“I can explain.”
“I’m sure you can.”
Dad stepped between us—not physically separating us, simply reminding us he was there.
“Explain without defending,” he said.
Derek nodded.
For the next hour, he tried.
He admitted borrowing money he had no right to borrow.
He admitted letting Veronica take too much control of the household.
He admitted that after the refinancing failed, he panicked.
He had convinced himself that if the Bellweather contract succeeded, he could repay everything before anyone knew.
“And the storage room?” I asked.
His eyes lowered.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
He rubbed his face.
“Veronica and Mom kept arguing. Dad kept avoiding it. I kept working fourteen-hour days. Everybody started making temporary compromises.”
“Until Mom and Dad were sleeping beside a lawn mower?”
“The lawn mower isn’t there anymore.”
I stared at him.
Derek actually winced.
“Bad answer.”
“Very bad.”
Dad folded his arms.
“Keep going.”
Derek exhaled.
“I knew it was wrong.”
“Then why didn’t you stop it?”
“Because stopping it meant admitting the whole arrangement had become wrong.”
That answer, at least, sounded true.
He walked to a metal cabinet.
From the top drawer, he removed a folder.
“I was going to fix it this week.”
He handed it to Dad.
Inside was a bank statement.
Then another.
Then a cashier’s check.
Twenty-four thousand dollars.
Payable to Manuel and Carmen Ruiz.
