I looked at him.
“You were paying it back?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling them you took it?”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“That’s not repayment, Derek. That’s covering tracks.”
“I know.”
His voice was quieter.
“I know that now.”
Dad did not say anything.
Then I noticed a framed photograph above Derek’s workbench.
Dad, maybe thirty years younger, standing beside a walnut dining table.
Next to the photograph was a handwritten note.
BUILD IT SO IT LASTS LONGER THAN YOUR PRIDE.
I recognized Dad’s handwriting.
“You kept that?”
Derek glanced toward it.
“He wrote it after I ruined a cabinet door when I was sixteen.”
Dad’s expression softened.
“I remember.”
“I didn’t.”
Derek gave a humorless laugh.
“Not until last year.”
A car pulled into the alley.
Veronica stepped out.
The moment she saw my car, she stopped.
Then she entered slowly.
Nobody raised their voice.
