"Dad?" Brandon asked, his voice echoing slightly as if he were pacing the polished marble hallways of his office building downtown. "What the hell is going on at the house?"

The story of the Reeves family implosion had become the hottest piece of gossip in the Texas financial and construction sectors. Articles were published in business journals—not mentioning the domestic violence, but detailing the spectacular SEC investigation into Vanguard Asset Management and the sudden, aggressive liquidation of Apex Global Development.

I stayed in my Spring home, tending to my garden, receiving daily updates from Marcus Vance.

The swellings on my face had begun to turn a ugly shade of yellow and green, but the physical pain was nearly gone. The emotional numbness, however, remained.

On Friday morning, Marcus came over with a stack of legal documents and a fresh pot of coffee.

"Arthur Vance filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy this morning," Marcus said, laying out the papers on my dining table. "His assets are being frozen. His legal team tried to fight the foreclosure of his Sugar Land estate, but Crescent Ridge’s contract was airtight. He and his wife are moving into a extended-stay hotel near the airport."

"And Amber?" I asked, sipping my tea.

"She filed for emergency divorce yesterday afternoon," Marcus said with a dry chuckle. "Claiming financial fraud, spousal misrepresentation, and emotional distress. She’s demanding 50% of Brandon’s non-existent assets and alimony. When her lawyer realized Brandon’s bank accounts were seized by the federal government, the lawyer withdrew from the case."

I shook my head slowly. "And Brandon?"

Marcus’s expression grew serious.

"Brandon is in deep trouble, Franklin," Marcus said. "The federal prosecutors in the Southern District of Texas are preparing a formal indictment for wire fraud, embezzlement, and breach of fiduciary duty. Because the amount exceeds $3 million, he’s facing a mandatory minimum of eight years in federal prison."

I sat in silence for a moment, looking out the window at the old oak tree where Brandon used to play.

"Is there any way out for him?" I asked quietly.

"Only one," Marcus said, leaning forward. "If you, as the primary victim of the financial fraud, sign a liability waiver and declare that the transfers were part of an informal, pre-approved family trust arrangement, the federal prosecutors will drop the criminal charges. He would still lose his license to work in finance, and he’d be broke, but he wouldn't go to prison."

I looked at Marcus. "He hasn't called me since Tuesday."

"He wouldn't," Marcus said. "His public defender—since he can no longer afford a private attorney—advised him not to contact you. But Brandon did send something to my office yesterday. He requested that I give it to you personally."

Marcus reached into his briefcase and pulled out a small, worn object wrapped in brown paper.

It was the 1962 Omega Seamaster watch. The one I had given him for his birthday. The one he had tossed aside on the table before he attacked me.

I picked up the watch. The strap was slightly worn, the glass crystal polished and clean. Attached to it was a small piece of paper with three lines written in Brandon’s handwriting:

“I’m sorry for every strike. I’m sorry for taking your life’s work for granted. I don’t ask for your forgiveness or your money. I just want you to know that for the first time in my life, I can finally see clearly.”

I held the watch in my hand, feeling its weight.

"What do you want to do, Franklin?" Marcus asked softly. "The grand jury meets on Monday morning. If you sign the waiver, we hand it to the prosecutor on Sunday night. If you don't, Brandon will be taken into federal custody at 9:00 AM Monday."