Chapter 9: Settlement
Derek's attorney was a man named Paul Shearer.
Grace briefed me on him the following morning, sitting in the chair my mother had occupied the night before.
Shearer was experienced, she said.
Corporate defense, mostly.
He'd handled six fraud cases in the last three years, and he was good at quiet resolutions.
"He'll want to keep this out of the news," Grace said.
"That works in your favor."
"What's he offering?" I said.
"Initial position is full restitution of the three forty-two, structured over thirty-six months."
"No," I said.
Grace made a small note.
"I expected that.
What's your position?"
"Full restitution, paid in a single payment within sixty days," I said.
"A signed admission of the unauthorized use of my name and credentials, which I retain for my own purposes — I won't publish it, but I want it in writing.
And a formal retraction sent to both client firms explaining that Vantage Medical Solutions had no involvement in Derek's consulting work."
Grace wrote.
"And the crjminal referral?"
"If he meets those terms completely and on time, I won't call the DA's office." I paused.
"If he misses a single term, that changes."
"Lauren?"
"She's named in the civil complaint," I said.
"What she and Derek work out between themselves is their business.
But she signs off on the admission too.
Her name is on those emails.
I want her signature on the acknowledgment."
Grace looked up from the pad.
"She won't like that."
"I know," I said.
"All right." Grace clicked her pen.
"I'll take it back to Shearer.
He'll push on the payment timeline.
Sixty days may be difficult if it requires liquidating assets."
"That's a Derek problem," I said.
"Not mine."
Grace permitted herself a small smile.
"Understood."
She left at nine thirty.
Julian came in briefly at ten with a follow-up on my personal accounts — a security flag had been placed on anything connected to the old Vantage name while the complaint was active, and he wanted to walk me through the protections already in place.
My father arrived at eleven.
He stood in the doorway the way he had years ago when I was sick as a child — uncertain whether to come in, uncertain whether he'd be welcome.
He was thinner than I remembered noticing.
When had that happened?
"Hi, Dad," I said.
He came in.
He sat down.
He didn't say anything for a moment.
"I talked to your mother last night," he said.
"For a long time."
"I know," I said.
"She told me what you said.
About the calls." He looked at his hands.
"I've been sitting with that since yesterday."
"And?" I said.
"And I don't have a good answer," he said.
"I knew you'd called.
I saw the phone.
I thought — I told myself you'd try again if it was serious.
That you always handled things." He looked up.
"That's not a reason.
I know that.
It's just what I told myself."
"It's the same thing Mom told herself," I said.
He nodded.
He looked older than he had yesterday.
Something in his face had settled, like a layer of surface expression had finally worn through to what was underneath.
"I'm sorry, Miranda," he said.
"I should have come the moment your name appeared on my phone."
"Yes," I said.
"You should have."
He nodded again.
He didn't try to explain it further.
That was more honest than anything he could have added.
We sat together for a while.
He asked about my injuries, the real questions — the timeline, the recovery, whether there was pain.
I answered honestly.
He listened the way he'd once listened when I explained things about the software company, focused and careful, like my words were things he intended to keep.
At one point he said: "The lake house."
"Dad—"
"I'm not asking you to change it," he said quickly.
"I'm not.
I just want you to know — your mother and I, we never thought of it as ours.
We always thought of it as something we were lucky to use."
"Lauren thought of it as hers," I said.
"Lauren thinks a lot of things are hers," he said quietly.
It was the most honest thing he'd said about his younger daughter in thirty years.
Maybe ever.
Grace called at two fifteen.
"Shearer came back," she said.
"He's resisting the sixty-day timeline.
Asking for ninety."
"Seventy-five," I said.
"Final offer."
"And Lauren's signature on the acknowledgment?"
"Non-negotiable," I said.
"He'll go back to Derek," Grace said.
"They'll accept by end of day.
Shearer doesn't want this in front of a judge."
She was right.
At four forty-seven, Grace texted one word.
*Accepted.*
I set the phone down.
My father was still in the room, reading a magazine he'd found on the windowsill, and he looked up when I exhaled.
"Good news?" he said.
"It's handled," I said.
He nodded slowly.
He set the magazine down.
"What does that mean for Lauren?" he said.
"It means she signs an acknowledgment and Derek pays back every dollar," I said.
"And they never use my name again."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Will she sign it?" he said.
"She doesn't have a choice," I said.
"Not if Derek wants to avoid a crjminal referral."
My father looked at the window for a long time.
"She made a terrible mistake," he said finally.
"Both of them did."
"Yes," I said.
"She's still your sister."
"I know that, Dad," I said.
"I know."
He looked back at me.
And something passed between us — not resolution, not yet, but the beginning of something that might become it.
An understanding that the story wasn't finished, but that we were, cautiously, still in the same room.
"Get some rest," he said.
He stood and straightened his jacket with the small, habitual gesture he'd had my whole life.
"I'll come back tomorrow."
"Okay," I said.
He paused at the door.
"Miranda," he said.
"For what it's worth — I'm proud of you.
I always have been." He stopped.
"I should have said it more."
The door closed gently behind him.
I looked at the ceiling.
The monitor beeped.
May you like
Seventy-five days, I thought.
And then it would be done.
