Chapter 9 - THE UNTANGLE
Three months after the sentencing.
The Texas sun was bright and warm as I stood in the driveway of my new studio building in downtown Austin.
It was a beautiful, ninety-year-old red-brick warehouse near East 6th Street—one of the three commercial properties my grandmother Eleanor had originally purchased in 1998.
Using a small portion of the $9.8 million civil settlement recovered from the liquidation of my father’s assets and Halden Aeronautics stock, I had purchased the building outright from the trust receiver, completely renovating it into the new headquarters of Evelyn Vance Interiors & Architecture.
Inside, six young designers were working at high-end drafting stations beneath exposed oak beams and skylights. Our project calendar was filled for the next two years, including major commercial design contracts for boutique hotels in Austin, Dallas, and Houston.
Maya Prescott walked out through the glass entrance doors, carrying two iced lattes and a white paper box from a local bakery.
She handed me a cup. “How does it feel to be an official Austin property mogul?”
“It feels quiet,” I smiled, taking a sip. “No wire transfers to the Caymans. No defense contractors screaming in ballrooms.”
“Speaking of the Caymans,” Maya said, setting the bakery box on an outdoor bistro table. “The final distribution check from the Delaware court receiver cleared this morning. $6.4 million net after tax restructuring and legal fees.”
I looked down at my phone screen, where a notification from Private Wealth Management was waiting.
Current Balance: $6,412,980.44.
For eight years, I had thought that money was the measure of my worth in my family’s eyes. I had thought that if I had enough money, my father would love me.
Standing in the warm Austin sun, looking at that number on my phone, I realized that money wasn't love. Money was just fuel.
It was fuel to build my own life. Fuel to protect myself. Fuel to ensure that no one would ever grab me by the hair and tell me I was nothing again.
“What about Nathan?” I asked quietly, taking a seat at the bistro table.
Maya opened the bakery box, pulling out a cinnamon roll.
“Nathan took a job as an entry-level logistics coordinator for a trucking firm in San Antonio,” Maya said flatly. “He’s making fifty-two thousand a year. He sold the Porsche to pay his legal defense bills. He lives in a one-bedroom apartment near the highway.”
“And Mom?”
“Diane moved into a small two-bedroom townhouse in Fort Worth,” Maya replied. “Her sisters are helping her pay rent. She spends her afternoons volunteering at a local garden club, trying to convince people she was a victim of Richard’s corporate downfall.”
I looked out at the street. A red city bus drove past, kicking up a gentle spray of autumn leaves.
I didn't feel hatred for Nathan. I didn't feel malice toward my mother.
They were ghosts now. People who had lived in a gilded palace built on stolen sand, waiting for the wind to blow it all down.
My phone buzzed on the table.
It was a text message from an unknown number.
Screen text: Evie. It’s Nathan. Mom says Dad’s first parole hearing is coming up in fourteen months. She wants to know if you’d consider writing a character statement for the board. Please, Evie. He’s sixty-nine now. He’s sick.
I stared at the screen for three seconds.
I didn't get angry. My heart rate didn't even spike.
May you like
I tapped the screen, selected the message, and hit DELETE.
Then I selected the number, tapped BLOCK THIS CALLER, and placed my phone face down on the table.
