Chapter 6 - THE SON WHO HAD EVERYTHING|
Preston James had spent most of his life receiving what I had spent mine learning to survive without.
Attention.
Approval.
A place at the dinner table.
The unquestioned certainty that he belonged.
I did not resent him for being loved.
I resented the way he had learned to use that love as a weapon.
When he called me three days after the funeral, his voice was sharp.
“Mom says you've been going through Dad's private records.”
I looked across Rebecca's conference table.
“How did she find out?”
“That isn't the point.”
“It seems like a pretty important point.”
“Dakota, you're making this worse.”
“For whom?”
He exhaled impatiently.
“Mom is grieving.”
“So am I.”
“She says you're trying to take the foundation away from her.”
“Preston, is that what you think?”
“I think you show up after years of being gone and suddenly decide you're entitled to everything.”
I closed my eyes.
The same accusation.
The same old story.
I had gone away to serve, and somehow my absence had become proof that I didn't care.
“Meet me somewhere public,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I want to hear what you believe without your mother standing beside you.”
He hesitated.
Then he agreed.
We met at a coffee shop near Arlington.
Preston arrived wearing an expensive navy suit and a watch that probably cost more than my first car.
He looked exhausted.
For the first time in years, he also looked frightened.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I placed one photograph on the table.
It showed the lakeside property.
“Who owns this house?”
His expression changed.
“Why?”
“Answer the question.”
“It's a property held through one of the foundation's investment entities.”
“Why does a veterans' charity need a lake house?”
He shifted in his seat.
“It was supposed to be used for donor retreats.”
“Was it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Who stayed there?”
He looked away.
“Mom.”
I waited.
“And Richard Vale,” he finally admitted.
That was the first honest answer he had given me in years.
I slid another document toward him.
It showed payments to a consulting company named Northbridge Advisory.
“Who approved these?”
“I did.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you know what the company actually provided?”
“Financial planning.”
“Did you verify the invoices?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Vale handled that side of things.”
“Preston.”
He looked at me.
“Did you authorize millions of dollars in foundation payments without confirming the services?”
His jaw tightened.
“You don't understand how these organizations work.”
“Then explain it.”
He said nothing.
I leaned forward.
“People donated money because they believed Dad's name meant something.”
“Don't lecture me about Dad.”
“Some of those people were veterans living in their cars.”
His face reddened.
“I worked for that foundation every day.”
“And what exactly did you build?”
The words escaped before I could soften them.
Preston stood abruptly.
“You always thought you were better than me.”
I looked up at him.
“No.”
“Everyone compared us.”
“That wasn't my doing.”
“You had the Army, the medals, the promotions.”
“And you had our father.”
He stopped.
I hadn't intended to say it.
But once the words were out, I couldn't take them back.
“You had Christmas mornings with him.”
“You had birthdays.”
“You had ordinary Sunday dinners when nobody was being deployed.”
My voice trembled.
“I would have traded a hundred ceremonies for one holiday when he looked at me and said he was glad I'd come home.”
Preston slowly sat down.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he whispered, “Mom said you hated being around us.”
“I know.”
“She said you didn't want Dad interfering with your career.”
“I know.”
“She said you thought we were embarrassing.”
I stared at him.
“Preston, did you ever hear me say any of those things?”
His silence answered.
I reached into my bag.
I removed a copy of one of Dad's letters.
The one he had written after my first deployment.
Preston read it.
His expression changed.
“He wrote this?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't he send it?”
“Someone prevented it from reaching me.”
He continued reading.
His hands began to shake.
At the bottom of the letter, Dad had written:
Tell Preston I love him.
My brother looked up.
“He mentioned me?”
“He always did.”
Preston swallowed.
For a moment, he looked like the boy who used to follow me around the backyard asking me to teach him how to salute.
Then his phone rang.
His mother's name appeared on the screen.
He ignored it.
It rang again.
Then a message arrived.
He read it and went pale.
“What is it?” I asked.
May you like
He turned the screen toward me.
MOM: DO NOT TELL DAKOTA ABOUT THE NIGHT YOUR FATHER DIED.
