Chapter 13 - THE PRICE OF RUNNING AWAYThe next forty-eight hours were the longest of my life.
Dad had disappeared.
His phone went straight to voicemail.
Mom claimed she didn't know where he was.
Hugh Ashb had contacted the company's attorneys after discovering an unexplained transfer from an operating account.
Daniel Bennett was cooperating with the independent financial review.
And my grandmother was lying in hospice, waiting to speak to a son who had apparently decided to run away rather than face her.
I sat beside her bed on Wednesday afternoon.
She looked smaller than she had the week before.
Her hands were thinner.
Her breathing was slower.
But her eyes remained clear.
"Has Calvin called?" she asked.
I hesitated.
"No."
She looked toward the window.
"I see."
I reached for her hand.
"Grandma, you don't have to keep waiting for him."
She smiled sadly.
"I know."
"Then why do you?"
She was quiet for several moments.
"Because being someone's mother doesn't end when they disappoint you."
I looked down.
She continued.
"But neither does being responsible for your choices."
I squeezed her fingers.
"Do you regret what you did?"
"Protecting my property?"
"Standing up to him."
She shook her head.
"No."
Her expression softened.
"I regret that it became necessary."
Those words stayed with me.
Grandma wasn't celebrating Dad's downfall.
She wasn't enjoying the embarrassment or the financial investigation.
She was grieving the man her son had become.
And somehow, that made everything more painful.
Later that day, Miles called with an update.
The independent financial review had identified additional irregularities in Whitaker Development's records.
The company was seeking legal advice about recovering funds, protecting legitimate business operations, and determining whether any misconduct should be referred for criminal investigation.
Hugh had stepped away from his business relationship with Calvin and authorized a separate examination of projects in which they had both invested.
"Is Dad going to prison?" I asked.
"We don't know that," Miles replied. "Potential wrongdoing must be investigated, and any charges or outcomes would depend on the evidence and legal process."
I appreciated his honesty.
Part of me wanted immediate justice.
Another part couldn't bear imagining my father behind bars.
I hated what he'd done.
But I also remembered him teaching me to ride a bicycle when I was six.
I remembered the rare evenings when he'd brought home ice cream for everyone.
I remembered sitting on his shoulders during a Fourth of July parade.
Those memories didn't excuse anything.
But they made the reality harder.
People were rarely only one thing.
My father had been capable of kindness.
He had also been capable of cruelty.
And now the consequences of his choices were reaching everyone around him.
That evening, Mom appeared at my apartment.
She looked exhausted.
Her hair was tied back.
She wore an ordinary gray coat instead of one of her expensive designer jackets.
I almost didn't recognize her.
"Everett."
I stepped aside.
She entered quietly.
For several moments, she stood in my living room, looking at the photographs of my students and the small electric piano.
Then she sat down.
"I've spoken to an attorney."
I nodded.
"Good."
She folded her hands.
"I told her everything I know about the documents."
I watched her carefully.
"Everything?"
She met my eyes.
"Everything."
I wanted to believe her.
But trust doesn't return simply because someone finally says the right words.
Mom looked down.
"I also told her about the piano sale."
I remained silent.
"And the witness signature."
She swallowed.
"And the document concerning Loretta's house."
I sat across from her.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Because for the first time in my life, I don't know how to make this situation disappear."
I looked at her.
"Maybe it isn't supposed to disappear."
She nodded slowly.
"I think you're right."
I studied her face.
"Mom, why did you treat me the way you did?"
The question escaped before I could stop it.
She looked startled.
"What?"
"Why was Delaney always the important one?"
Her lips parted.
I continued.
"You praised everything she did. You bought her whatever she wanted. You introduced her to people and told everyone she was going places."
I paused.
"But every time I talked about music, you acted like I was embarrassing you."
Mom looked down.
"I thought you were wasting your potential."
"Why?"
"Because you were talented. Intelligent. You could have done anything."
"I am doing something."
Her eyes filled again.
"I know."
"No, Mom. You don't."
My voice remained quiet.
"I teach children who need someone to believe in them. Some of them don't have much money. Some struggle in school. Some have parents who are too busy or too exhausted to notice how hard they're trying."
I swallowed.
"When they walk into my classroom, I want them to feel important."
Mom began crying.
I looked at her.
"That's what Grandma made me feel."
She covered her face.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered:
"I was wrong."
The words were simple.
They didn't erase thirty-two years.
But they mattered.
She looked up.
"I thought success meant never needing anyone. I thought if I pushed you toward something more impressive, you'd thank me someday."
I shook my head.
"I didn't need you to be impressed, Mom."
My voice cracked.
"I needed you to be proud of me."
She began sobbing.
"I'm sorry, Everett."
I looked away.
For years, I'd imagined hearing those words.
I thought they would make me feel victorious.
Instead, I felt tired.
And terribly sad.
Finally, I said:
"I appreciate you saying that."
She nodded.
"I understand if you can't forgive me."
I looked at her.
"I don't know what forgiveness will look like yet."
She accepted that.
Then she reached into her purse.
"I brought you something."
She placed a small envelope on the table.
Inside was a photograph of Grandma and me at the piano.
I was seven.
She was smiling.
My small hands rested on the keyboard.
Mom touched the photograph.
"I took that picture."
I stared at her.
"I didn't know."
She smiled sadly.
"Your grandmother asked me to."
I looked down at the image.
For a moment, I remembered a time when our family hadn't seemed so broken.
Then Mom spoke again.
"Everett, there's something else."
I raised my eyes.
She hesitated.
"Calvin called me this morning."
My chest tightened.
"Where is he?"
"He wouldn't say."
"What did he want?"
Her voice grew quiet.
"He asked whether Loretta was still alive."
I felt a cold sensation spread through me.
"Why?"
Mom wiped her cheeks.
"He said he needed to know before he made his final decision."
I stared at her.
"What decision?"
She shook her head.
"I don't know."
Then she reached into her purse and removed a folded note.
"He asked me to give this to you."
I opened it.
There were only two sentences.
Everett, I know where the missing financial records are.
If you want the truth about what happened to your grandmother's money, come alone to the old furniture warehouse tomorrow at seven.
I looked at Mom.
The old furniture warehouse.
Grandpa Henry's workshop.
The place where my father's ambition had first nearly destroyed the family.
May you like
And now he wanted me to meet him there.
Alone.
