sanding.
He hated the smell of lacquer.
He once told Dad he would rather dig ditches than spend his life building chairs.
“Where?”
“He rents space behind an antique shop across town.”
“With what money?”
Some of mine, apparently.
Dad looked uncomfortable.
“He wanted to prove he could make it work before telling you.”
“So he took money intended for you.”
“He borrowed.”
“Did you agree to that?”
Silence.
There was my answer.
I spent that night in a small motel outside Carmona.
I did not confront Derek.
Inez had
