The precise circumstances of the old storage-building fire were never established with the same certainty as the financial misconduct.
That frustrated the old mechanic.
He wanted to know whether his son had been deliberately framed through a planned fire or whether the blaze had occurred independently and then been used to reinforce a false accusation.
But after eleven years, some evidence simply wasn't available.
His attorney reminded him that not knowing every detail didn't erase what the existing records established.
The charity money hadn't vanished because his son was a thief.
The evidence pointed toward the business partner whose word he'd trusted.
And his son's repeated attempts to maintain contact had been hidden among records controlled by that same man.
Those facts were painful enough.
The old mechanic eventually met his former business partner one final time during a legally arranged discussion concerning their shared ownership of Iron Hollow.
They sat across from one another in a conference room.
An attorney was present for each man.
The partner looked tired.
His once-expensive jacket hung loosely across his shoulders, and he seemed uncomfortable without the familiar authority of the garage office.
For several minutes, the conversation concerned contracts and outstanding business obligations.
Then the old mechanic looked directly at him.
"Why the letters?"
The partner stopped.
His attorney glanced toward him.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
The old mechanic continued.
"My son wrote to me. He sent pictures. He tried to tell me about his family."
The partner looked toward the table.
The older biker's voice tightened.
"Why were they hidden?"
For several seconds, his former friend remained silent.
Then he said quietly.
"You were finally getting over it."
The mechanic stared.
"Getting over what?"
"Your son leaving."
The old man felt anger rising.
The partner continued.
"You'd stopped asking about him. The business was recovering. I thought it was better not to reopen everything."
For a moment, the mechanic couldn't speak.
Then he shook his head.
"You don't get to decide whether a father hears from his son."
The partner looked away.
The old biker leaned forward.
"You watched me spend eleven years believing my boy wanted nothing to do with me."
For several seconds, the room remained silent.
Then he continued.
"You knew he was trying to come home."
The partner didn't answer.
The old mechanic looked toward the window.
He remembered the funeral he'd attended years earlier when his son's mother died.