I sat back.
That did not erase what he had done.
But again, the story refused to become simple.
That afternoon, Dad finally agreed to let me visit Derek’s rented workshop.
We went without calling ahead.
The building stood behind a row of antique stores near the old railway district.
The door was open.
Inside, I stopped.
There were twelve dining chairs lined along one wall.
A massive carved sideboard sat under restoration lamps.
Cabinet doors rested on padded tables.
And in the middle of the room stood my brother.
