Not because I was nervous. No, I had already crossed that line. I’d wrestled with guilt, with second-guing, with the heavy ache of betrayal.
But by now, those feelings had hardened into something else, something sharper.
This wasn’t vengeance for the sake of vengeance. This was justice.
My father trusted me with that anchor fund. Josh buried it in his pocket like a piece of stolen silver, and I wasn’t going to let that stand.
So, when the certified letter was delivered courtesy of a fraud investigator I hired privately before anything went to court, I sat back and waited.
I didn’t call. I didn’t text. I didn’t check social media.
I just waited.
It took 20 hours.
At 11:02 the next morning, Josh showed up at my office.
I could see him from the security camera feed at the front desk, hair wild, hoodie pulled up, a mess of nerves barely disguised by forced bravado.
My assistant buzzed me.
“There’s a man named Josh Wyatt downstairs. Says he’s your brother.”
“Tell him I’m in a meeting,” I said without hesitation. “Should I give him a copy of the document in the red folder marked fraud disclosure?”
I had prepared it days earlier. I had a feeling he’d come in person.
10 minutes passed.
Then 15.
Then I got a text.
Josh, “You’re actually going to ruin my life over this. We’re family.”
Then another.
Josh, “Come on, man. You don’t need the money.”
Followed by Josh.
“Fine. If this is how you want to play it, I’ll burn with you.”
I muted his number.
Later that evening, I got a call from Emily. I didn’t pick up, but she left a voicemail.
“Marcus, look, I didn’t know about the money. I swear. I thought you’d given it to him. He told me his dad left him something directly and that you didn’t need it. I didn’t question it. I should have, but I didn’t. And now everything’s falling apart. He’s losing it, Marcus. He can’t sleep. He hasn’t been to work. He thinks you’re going to send him to jail. Are you?”
Yes, but I didn’t say that.
I didn’t respond.
Instead, I let the investigator do his job, and he did it well.