Packing took thirty minutes. Two suitcases, efficiently filled with light clothing for tropical conditions, important documents, and medicine.
My dealer manager, Jake, received a short email. Family emergency. You are in charge, details to follow.
I stood in the hallway and looked at the family photo we had taken at Laguna Gloria five years ago. Emily’s smile seemed genuine back then, or maybe I just really wanted to believe that.
I lifted the heavy frame off the wall, turned it over, and hung it up again. The empty back seemed fairer somehow.
In my bedroom, I took off my ring from the University of Texas, the ring Emily played with as a child and pretended she would wear it someday. It went into the box with the other stuff.
The migraine had now completely vanished, replaced by something that resembled anticipation more. There were three text messages from Emily on my phone. I deleted them without reading them.
Brandon had called twice, probably to emphasize tomorrow’s deadline once again. The voicemail messages could wait.
I made another phone call, this time to Margaret in Houston. She answered immediately, as if she had been waiting by the phone all that time.
‘Robert. James called me. Are you really doing this?’
I should have done this years ago.
‘She is our daughter.’ Margaret’s voice sounded sad, not judgmental. ‘But she is no longer the daughter we raised, is she?’
“No, that is not her.”
That place in Costa Rica. You are safe there. It is a vacation, a long vacation. Jake can arrange the dealers. The lawyers can handle the rest.
Margaret was silent for a moment. “You know, she will try to find you.”
Let her try. By the time she finds out what’s really in that box, I’ll be drinking coffee on the beach and wondering if I’ll ever come back.
We parted without sentimentality. Margaret understood what Emily had become, perhaps even sooner than I did. Mothers always know.
At 11:30 PM, I stood in my dark kitchen drinking water and looking at the fridge, which was plastered with drawings by my grandchildren. Stick figures with the text ‘Grandpa and I fishing in Lake Travis’. A colored pencil drawing of my car dealer with a drawing by Grandpa scribbled underneath.
I carefully took the fish image out of the packaging, folded it up, and put it in my wallet. The children were not responsible for their parents’ choices.
I placed the box on the porch table so they would be sure to see it. The doorbell camera would capture their reaction when they opened it at twelve o’clock noon. They expected a check, but instead found a complete failure of their illusions.
The alarm was set for 4:30. Six more hours until my new life began. Six and a half hours until theirs fell apart.
The alarm went off at exactly 4:30. No snooze button, no hesitation. Over the past 32 years, during the first dealer meetings, I had taught myself to wake up immediately, and today that discipline served a different purpose.
The coffee machine came to life with a soft hum, programmed the night before. Colombian dark roast, the kind Emily always complained was too strong when she used to stop by for breakfast. The ceramic mug warmed my hands, an anniversary gift from her ten years ago, back when she still remembered such dates.
Through the kitchen window, I saw the Austin skyline slowly awaken; office buildings lit up floor after floor, while the rest of the city still slept. I moved through my house with deliberate precision, documenting every room like a detective at a crime scene.
Margaret’s mother’s portrait still hung in the bedroom. Emily had always wanted it, but had never asked nicely enough for it. In her childhood bedroom, which had long since been converted into an office, her high school trophies still hung. State Debating Champion. Member of the National Honor Society. The daughter I had raised opposite the stranger who had asked for money just twelve hours ago.
The pool looked serene in the morning light. I had taught Emily to swim there, her fearless splashing when she was four. Last July, Brandon had gotten drunk during our 4th of July party, fallen in fully clothed, and subsequently blamed me for the pool’s location. Even then, I had paid the bill for his broken designer watch.
The Bentley came to life in the garage with a soft hum. I had chosen it over the Tesla. Brandon had too many memories of that car, too many assumptions about the inheritance.
The streets of Westlake Hills lay deserted, except for the garbage trucks starting their Saturday route. I drove past Emily’s neighborhood; every house was dark and peaceful. They were sleeping, probably dreaming of ways to spend my money.
The radio was playing classic rock and “Take It Easy” by the Eagles filled the cabin. The irony did not escape me.
At the intersection of Bee Cave and Walsh Tarlton, I considered calling Margaret, but I decided against it. James would be better able to handle that conversation than I could.
Mopac stretched out before me, almost empty. I passed three of my dealers, their lots full of stock that would soon fall under Jake’s responsibility. At the headquarters, my photo was still hanging in the lobby. That had to be changed.
Near Fifth Street, I saw Brandon’s favorite bar, the Velvet Room, where his contacts in the gambling world met, and where this whole disaster had actually started. Due to roadwork on Congress, we had to take a detour via Second Street.
The city where I had built up my business over thirty years looked different at dusk, as if a stage were being set for a play I would no longer attend.
James’s office was located on the 42nd floor of the Frost Bank Tower. At 5:30 a.m., the building was largely empty, except for security and a few extremely ambitious people.
James waited in the meeting room with Sophia Chen, his legal assistant. Documents were spread out on the mahogany table with military precision. In the center stood a box of Krispy Kreme donuts, our tradition at important deals since 1999.
‘You look surprisingly rested,’ remarked James, as he slid the power of attorney across the table.
First good night’s sleep in months.
