She told me the mortgage money came from her mother’s estate,” he said.
“Her mother’s estate ran out two years ago,” I replied. “Do you know where the rest went? Tyler.”
By noon, we were at his bank with a loan officer and a folder of statements he had taken from Denise’s desk after I left dinner. The house wasn’t just slightly behind. It was ninety-two days from foreclosure review. The rehab bills had only been paid because I had covered them. The lake cabin had a line of credit against it. And Tyler’s custom truck shop—the “rough patch” Denise kept talking about—had burned through nearly sixty thousand dollars in family money before collapsing under unpaid taxes and vendor debt.
I felt nauseated, but Dad looked almost calm. That scared me more.
On the drive back, he gripped the steering wheel and said, “I knew Denise favored Tyler. I told myself that was normal. I never imagined she would take from you and hide it from me.”
