long breath.
“I knew it was wrong.”
“Then why didn’t you stop it?”
“Because stopping it meant admitting the whole arrangement had become wrong.”
At least that sounded sincere. From a metal filing cabinet he retrieved a folder.
“I was going to fix it this week.”
Dad received two bank statements and a $24,000 cashier’s check payable to Manuel and Carmen Ruiz. He stared.
“I was short four thousand,” Derek explained. “I expected another client payment Friday.”
I looked closely at him.
“You were paying it back?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling them you took it?”
His jaw grew tense.
“Yes.”
“That’s not repayment, Derek. That’s covering tracks.”
“I know.”
His answer came more softly.
“I know that now.”
Dad stayed silent. Above the workbench hung a photograph of him thirty years younger beside a walnut dining table. A note in his handwriting urged building things that outlast one’s pride. ChooseFurniture
