“I knew she had written something. Your grandmother showed me after the funeral.”
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“And you still lied for twelve years.”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
I sat across from him.
“Why didn’t you turn your brother in after reading that?”
My father looked older than he had the day before.
“Because by then I had already lied.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
“Then tell me.”
He looked toward the window.
“The business had thirty-two employees.”
I waited.
“Most had families. Mortgages. Children.”
“So?”
“If the insurance carrier discovered what happened, we were likely finished.”
“You cared more about the company.”
“I told myself I cared about the employees.”
“But?”
“I was scared.”
Finally.
A word that sounded true.
“I was thirty-one years old. My wife was dead. I had a five-year-old daughter asking when her mother was coming home. I had investigators asking questions. I had employees wondering whether they still had jobs.”
He rubbed his eyes.
“And my brother was begging me not to send him to prison.”
“So you protected him.”
“Yes.”
“Did he ask you to say you were driving?”
“Yes.”
“And you agreed.”
“Not immediately.”
“How long did it take?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
I stared at him.
“Ten minutes.”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“You had twelve years afterward.”
“Yes.”
“That excuse only works for ten minutes.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
I hated how much I still loved him.
People rarely warn you about that.
Anger would be easier if love disappeared when someone betrayed you.
Instead both existed.
I wanted him punished.
I wanted him safe.
I wanted to leave.
I wanted him to follow me.
I wanted my mother.
All at the same time.
“Are you going to the police?”
“Yes.”
The answer came quickly.
“When?”
“Today.”
“Because you got caught?”
He looked at me.
“At first? Probably.”
I appreciated that he did not lie.
“But now because I should have gone twelve years ago.”
“What happens to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could you go to jail?”
“Yes.”
The word frightened me.
He saw.
“I have an attorney coming this morning.”
I folded my arms.
“Don’t use money to make this disappear.”
“I won’t.”
“You say that now.”
“I know.”
“If the truth costs you the company?”
He swallowed.
“Then it costs me the company.”
I wanted to believe him.
I wasn’t ready.
My phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
I opened it.
A photograph loaded.