Chapter 6 - The Missing Drive
For the next three days, Alexander barely slept.
Police reports were filed.
Attorneys became involved.
Denise preserved every record she had copied.
Jeff’s apartment had been emptied.
His car was gone.
His social media accounts disappeared.
Nobody knew whether he had left Texas.
The missing hard drive became critical because it contained archived vendor documents, contracts, and internal correspondence.
Without it, proving the full scope of the suspected fraud would be harder.
But not impossible.
Denise had already reconstructed enough.
Meanwhile, something unexpected happened at my workshop.
A local interior designer named Hannah Brooks visited after seeing one of my restored tables online.
She walked around the room touching the wood grain, studying joints, asking about finishes.
Finally she said, “How many pieces can you do in a month?”
“I don’t know.”
“Four?”
“Probably.”
“Six?”
“If I stop sleeping.”
She laughed.
Then she made me an offer.
Her design firm furnished renovated homes across Austin.
Clients increasingly wanted restored vintage furniture instead of mass-produced pieces.
Would I supply items?
I almost said no.
My first instinct was to think about Alexander.
Was this too much work?
Would he need me?
Did Sofia need help?
Then I caught myself.
“I’m interested.”
Hannah smiled.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
By the end of the week, Second Life Furniture had its first professional client.
I should have been thrilled.
Instead, I felt guilty.
That irritated me.
Why should happiness make a woman feel guilty?
Especially happiness she had earned?
I was thinking about that when Richard arrived.
Valerie’s father had never visited my home alone.
He stepped out of a black sedan wearing a navy blazer and a facial expression suggesting he had come to audit my existence.
“Teresa.”
“Richard.”
“May I come in?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re here as Valerie’s father or as a banker.”
His mouth tightened.
“Both.”
I let him inside.
He inspected the workshop.
“This used to be Alexander’s bedroom.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been productive.”
“I try.”
He touched the edge of a restored desk.
“This is excellent work.”
That was the first compliment Richard had given me in twenty years.
“What do you want?”
He turned.
“Alexander came to me for money.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
My stomach tightened.
“How much?”
“Three hundred thousand.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“No.”
Relief surprised me.
“Why not?”
“Because for once, I think money would make the situation worse.”
I smiled.
“Welcome to the club.”
He almost smiled back.
Almost.
“I learned what you’ve been paying.”
“Alexander told you?”
“Valerie did.”
“And?”
Richard looked uncomfortable.
“I misjudged you.”
That was not a sentence I expected.
“In what way?”
“I assumed your support was modest.”
“Because I owned a hardware store?”
“Yes.”
At least he was honest.
“I thought Alexander had financially surpassed his background years ago.”
“He did.”
Richard raised an eyebrow.
“Then how do you explain this?”
“Income isn’t the same as wisdom.”
That earned a full smile.
“No,” he said. “It certainly isn’t.”
He walked toward the window.
“I also owe you an apology for dinner.”
“You didn’t yell.”
“I didn’t object.”
“That matters.”
“Yes.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Richard said, “Alexander spent years trying to impress me.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t realize how badly.”
“I did.”
“You could have told me.”
“He was your son-in-law. Not mine to explain.”
Richard nodded.
Then his expression became serious.
“There’s something else.”
Of course there was.
He opened a leather folder.
Inside was a copy of a loan document.
Alexander’s firm had borrowed money eleven months earlier.
The lender was not a bank.
It was a private investment company.
“What is this?” I asked.
“A bridge loan.”
“How much?”
“Six hundred thousand.”
My stomach dropped.
“I thought the loan coming due was four hundred and ten.”
“That’s another facility.”
I stared at him.
“So he owes more than a million dollars?”
“Potentially.”
“Does Alexander know you have this?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Perhaps because he knew what you would say.”
“And what would I say?”
Richard looked directly at me.
“That no amount of money can rescue a company if the person running it still refuses to face reality.”
I closed the folder.
“When is this due?”
Richard answered.
“Nineteen days.”
That evening, Alexander came over.
I put the loan document on the table.
He didn’t pretend.
“You know.”
“Yes.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Before or after asking me for money?”
His jaw tightened.
“I haven’t asked you for anything.”
“You asked Richard.”
“That’s different.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“Mom, I have employees.”
“You keep saying that like it erases every bad decision.”
“You think I don’t know I made mistakes?”
“I think you understand consequences only after they arrive.”
He looked exhausted.
“What do you want me to do? Shut the firm down?”
“I want you to answer one question.”
“What?”
“If nobody rescued you, what would you do?”
He stared at me.
“I don’t know.”
“Then figure it out.”
He left angry.
I let him.
At midnight, my phone buzzed.
A message from Alexander.
I expected another argument.
May you like
Instead, it contained four words.
I’M SELLING THE HOUSE.
