Trey stood in the doorway with his phone in his right hand, his face the color of old ash.
His eyes found me at the small table by the window, sitting with my plate and my fork and the November dark outside the glass.
His mouth opened.
I looked at him and took another bite of ham.
“Dad.”
His voice broke directly down the middle of that word like a branch that has been holding more weight than it was built to carry.
“What did you do?”
I set down my fork.
“I took back what was mine.”
He stepped into the kitchen and let the door swing shut.
His voice dropped, pulled tight.
“The operating account is locked. The credit line is frozen. Marcus Webb, Ben, he won’t pick up. Do you understand what Monday looks like without that account? We have six crews running. We have material invoices due.”
