Chapter 4 - Dad in the Parking Garage
Dad was waiting between two concrete pillars when we reached the third level of the garage.
He stood beside his Buick with both hands shoved into his coat pockets.
He looked ten years older than he had at Thanksgiving.
Greg stayed several feet behind me.
"Show me your phone," I said.
Dad blinked.
"Aaron -"
"Your phone."
He handed it over.
I switched it to airplane mode.
"Now talk."
Dad looked past me toward Greg.
"Who's he?"
"My lawyer."
His face tightened.
"You brought a lawyer?"
"You used my driver's license on a finance call."
He looked down.
That was answer enough.
"How many times?"
"Once."
"How many documents?"
"I don't know."
"Try harder."
He flinched at my voice.
For a second I saw the old reflex in both of us: him preparing to tell me I was being disrespectful, me preparing to swallow it.
Neither happened.
Dad rubbed his palms together.
"Your mother said you had approved a temporary credit line to help with the house. She said the lender needed a video because you were out of town and the deadline was that day."
I stared at him.
"And that made sense to you?"
"No."
"But you did it."
"She said you were on a job site and couldn't connect. Melanie had your old license. Travis set up the laptop. They told me all I had to do was confirm some information."
"By saying you were me."
His shoulders dropped.
"Yes."
The word came out almost soundless.
Greg stepped forward.
"Mr. Brooks, did you sign anything using Aaron's name?"
Dad shook his head.
Then stopped.
"I initialed one page."
I laughed without humor.
"Of course you did."
"They told me it was only confirmation that the video happened."
"With my initials?"
He looked at the floor.
My hands had gone cold.
A horn sounded from the street below.
Dad jerked toward the opening in the garage.
"Are they following you?" I asked.
"I don't think so."
"That wasn't my question."
He pressed his lips together.
"Your mother has been checking my location."
Greg looked at me.
"Through what?"
"Family tracking app. Melanie set it up last year."
I gave him back the phone only long enough for him to show us.
There it was.
Mom, Dad, Melanie, and Travis all visible inside a location circle.
My name was listed too, but my location was unavailable.
"Turn sharing off," Greg said.
Dad did.
Seconds later, a message arrived.
MOM: Why did you disappear?
Dad's fingers shook.
"She watches all of you?" I asked.
"Mostly when she's worried."
"That's what you still call it?"
He did not answer.
I asked about the rent.
Dad rubbed a hand across his face.
He thought it had been paid.
Mom handled the account.
He thought my money went toward household expenses.
He thought Melanie and Travis were paying the option fees because they planned to buy the house eventually.
Every answer began with I thought.
"Did you ever verify anything?"
"No."
"Did you ever ask why Mom needed my ID?"
"She said you had sent it."
"Did you ask me?"
His silence was heavier than the concrete around us.
I stepped away.
Greg asked about mail addressed to me.
Dad's head lifted.
"There was a lot for a while."
"Where is it?"
"Diane took it."
"Where?"
He glanced toward the ramp again.
"Storage."
I turned back.
"What storage?"
Dad swallowed.
"She rented a unit after the garage flooded two summers ago. At least that's what she told me."
"You never went?"
"Once."
"What's in it?"
"Boxes. Papers. Some of Melanie's furniture."
He lowered his voice.
"And mail."
"Mine?"
He nodded.
"I saw envelopes with your name. Bank logos. Insurance. Something from a lender. Diane got angry when I touched the stack. She said you knew about it."
I leaned closer.
"Where?"
"Westgate Storage. Unit 314."
Greg wrote it down.
"Whose name is the unit under?"
"I don't know."
"Do you have a key?"
Dad reached into his pocket.
A small brass key lay in his palm.
"Why do you have that?"
"I made a copy after the first time I went."
"Why?"
He finally looked at me.
Fear sat plainly on his face.
"Because I stopped believing your mother when she said everything was fine."
That landed differently.
"How long ago?"
"Eight months."
Eight months.
He had doubted her for eight months and still said nothing.
I wanted to shout.
Instead I asked, "Why didn't you call me?"
Dad opened his mouth.
His phone vibrated.
We all looked down.
A new message from Mom.
ROBERT, ANSWER ME.
Then another.
MELANIE: Dad, where are you?
Then a third.
TRAVIS: We need everyone back at the house. Now.
Dad stared at the screen.
"They know something changed."
"Because you disappeared for ten minutes?"
"Because Travis checks the lender accounts. He probably saw the freeze."
Greg's voice sharpened.
"You knew he had access to the lender accounts?"
Dad looked trapped.
"He handles paperwork."
"For what?"
"Melanie's business. The house. I don't know."
I took a step toward him.
"Dad, what is M and R Home Interiors?"
His face went pale.
"Melanie's company."
"Why is it receiving money from a credit line in my name?"
"I don't know."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I don't!"
His voice cracked across the garage.
A woman near the elevator glanced over.
Dad lowered his tone.
"Aaron, I did the video. I signed the initials. That's on me. But the rest - the accounts, the paperwork, the rent - Diane and Melanie handled it. Travis started helping last year. After that, I was barely told anything."
I wanted to believe the line was neat.
Dad made one bad decision.
Everyone else built the machine.
But neat stories were what got me here.
Greg asked for the storage key.
Dad gave it to him.
"We don't enter without confirming authority," Greg said. "If the unit is in your name and you have lawful access, fine. If not, we get permission or law enforcement involved. We don't hand the other side an argument that evidence was stolen."
Dad nodded quickly.
His phone buzzed again.
This time he looked at the screen and stopped moving.
I took the phone from his hand.
Mom's message was short.
HE KNOWS.
A second message appeared before I could speak.
DO NOT TELL HIM ABOUT UNIT 314.
Dad closed his eyes.
Greg photographed the screen.
I read the message one more time.
Then I looked at my father.
"She already knows you're with me."
Dad also admitted something smaller that somehow hurt worse.
For months, Mom had been telling relatives that I was "getting controlling with money."
He had heard it at Thanksgiving.
He had heard Melanie say I expected gratitude for every dollar.
He had never corrected them.
"Why?" I asked.
Dad's eyes filled but he blinked it away.
"Because if I defended you, Diane would ask what I had told you."
"So you let them rewrite me because it kept you comfortable."
He said nothing.
The garage lights clicked brighter as the motion sensor reset.
I realized then that silence had been Dad's favorite form of participation.
He did not need to forge the signature to help the lie survive.
May you like
He only needed to keep standing next to it.
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