Chapter 8 - The Aftermath and Legal Reckoning
""What about the cash?"" Harper asked nervously, her eyes darting greedily toward the desk. ""That money was technically given to me—""
""That cash belongs to Mom,"" I cut her off sharply. ""Every single dollar of it. There is ten thousand six hundred and eighty dollars on this desk. That money is going into an independent bank account under Eleanor Reed’s sole name this afternoon.""
""You can't do that!"" Harper shrieked. ""That's theft!""
""If you say one more word about theft, Harper,"" Adam interrupted sternly, stepping in front of her, ""I will call the county prosecutor right now and hand over all the forged credit documents and fraudulent loan accounts you opened in your father's name. We are going to court on Monday morning to file for legal separation. You are checking into an outpatient facility for your gambling addiction, or you will not see Milo without a court-appointed supervisor.""
Harper looked at her husband, then at her father, and finally at her mother. For the first time in her pampered life, there were no excuses left, no doting father to write a check, and no brother to blame for her misery. She broke down into genuine, silent sobs of defeat, slumping into the corner of the office.
Eleanor walked over to the desk, her expression firm and resolved. She gathered the twelve envelopes, placed them inside her handbag, and zipped it shut.
""Nolan,"" she said softly, her voice steady for the first time in days. ""Your father and I still have to settle our divorce. The damage between us is too deep to fix, and forty years of neglect cannot be undone. But knowing that you survived, that you built this wonderful life despite our failures... it gives me hope.""
""You don't have to face this alone anymore, Mom,"" I said, pulling her into a warm hug. ""My home is always open to you.""
Richard stood by the door, his hands clasped together, looking completely lost. He had no money, his credit was ruined, and his wife was leaving him. He was facing the harsh reality of starting over at fifty-eight years old with nothing.
I looked at him for a long moment. Then I walked over to my desk drawer, pulled out a spare set of shop keys, and set them on the edge of the table.
""Dad,"" I called out.
He looked up, surprised.
""Vern has a small furnished efficiency apartment above the secondary salvage warehouse,"" I said calmly. ""The rent is four hundred dollars a month. And I happen to need a reliable parts dispatcher and yard manager to handle our inventory logistics starting Monday morning. It pays twenty dollars an hour. You'll work fifty hours a week, and you won't get a penny in advance.""
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Richard stared at the keys as if they were made of solid gold. ""Nolan... after everything I did to you?""
""Money doesn't grow on trees, Dad,"" I smiled faintly, quoting his favorite line without any malice. ""You earn it with your own two hands. Just like I did.""
