“What did he say?”
“They want assurance that the January funding remains available.”
“And?”
“I told them our investment committee was reviewing the material change.”
“Perfect.”
“Brooke, I need to ask you something as your partner, not your friend. Is this personal?”
I looked at Dad’s message again.
“Partly.”
“That worries me.”
“It should. Which is why I’m not making the decision alone.”
That afternoon, I drove to Franklin.
Landon opened the front door before I knocked.
His Christmas smirk had vanished.
“What the hell did you do?”
“I signed the documents.”
“Don’t play games.”
“You handed me the pen.”
He stepped aside.
In his office, Dad had two laptops, scattered financial reports, and a legal pad crowded with figures.
Mom sat near the fireplace.
Dad didn’t offer me a seat.
“You’re connected to Redstone.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I’m one of the founding partners.”
Mom’s eyes widened.
Landon laughed.
Not from amusement.
He simply doubted me.
“That’s ridiculous.”
I looked at him.
“Redstone Capital Partners LLC. Tennessee Secretary of State. Public record.”
Dad’s face reddened.
“You bought our debt?”
“Redstone bought part of it.”
“To control me.”
I burst out laughing.
“Dad, you really think I built an investment partnership just to win an argument with you?”
“Then why?”
“Because your company had good underlying assets, skilled employees, strong customer relationships, and terrible capital allocation.”
Landon stepped forward.
“Careful.”
“No. You be careful. You pushed Dad into buying two logistics properties the company couldn’t afford.”
“They’re appreciating assets.”
“One is operating at forty-eight percent capacity.”
His face changed.
Dad noticed.
“How do you know that?”
“Because lenders perform due diligence.”
Silence.
Dad looked down at the paperwork.
“How much has Redstone invested?”
“More than five million dollars across multiple transactions.”
Mom whispered, “Five million?”
“That’s partnership capital. It doesn’t mean I personally wrote a five-million-dollar check.”
Dad seemed to be struggling to fit the woman standing in his office into the version of me he had carried in his head for years.
“And Sentinel?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“Your company.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Is it actually profitable?”
Landon rolled his eyes.
“For God’s sake—”
“Last year’s revenue was $14.3 million,” I said.
Nobody spoke.
Mom stared at me.
Dad lowered himself into his chair.
Landon finally said, “Bullshit.”
“Look it up.”
He did.
Half a minute later, he paled.
Dad leaned toward him.
“Well?”
Landon didn’t answer.
I did.
“Sentinel Forge protects industrial networks, manufacturing systems, logistics infrastructure, and utilities. We have sixty-eight employees in Nashville and Atlanta. We’re opening a Dallas office next year.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“But every Christmas—”
“The checks?”
She nodded.
“Dad insisted on giving me money.”
“A thousand dollars,” Dad murmured.
“I donated it.”
That one hurt him.
I could see it.
Not because of the money.
His comforting story had collapsed.
He had not been supporting me.
His generosity had been a performance for an absent audience.
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“Fine. You’ve made your point.”
“I didn’t make any point.”
“You obviously did. Call Redstone. Release the funding.”
“No.”
His head snapped up.
“What?”
“I said no.”
Landon slammed his palm against the desk.
“This is retaliation.”
“No. Retaliation would be accelerating the debt.”
Dad stiffened.
“Can you do that?”
“Under certain default conditions. But nobody is doing that.”
“Then what do you want?”
I had awaited that question for years.
Not because I wanted money.
I sought accountability.
“I want an independent forensic audit.”
Landon froze.
Only half a second.
But I saw it.
So did Mom.
Dad frowned.
“Why?”
“Because Redstone is being asked to commit another $1.6 million to a company whose leverage remains too high, whose expansion strategy makes no sense, and whose operating margins have deteriorated for three consecutive years.”
“That doesn’t require a forensic audit.”
“No. But several consulting payments do.”
Landon stared at me.
“What consulting payments?”
“Exactly.”
Dad stood.
“You don’t come into my house and accuse my son of stealing.”
“I haven’t accused anyone.”
“You’re implying it.”
“I’m asking questions your lenders should have asked months ago.”
Landon pointed toward the door.
“Get out.”
Mom suddenly spoke.
“No.”
Everyone turned.
She was looking at Landon.
Not me.
“Do the audit.”
His face drained.
“Mom—”
“Do it.”
Dad stared at his wife.
Something passed between them.
A suspicion.
Maybe an old memory.
Perhaps a forgotten receipt.
Dad slowly sat down again.
“How long?”
“Four to six weeks.”
“And the funding?”
“Redstone maintains essential operating support while the audit is underway. No expansion. No acquisitions. No discretionary capital projects above $200,000 without approval.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re dictating terms to me.”
“No.”
I picked up my coat.
“I’m telling you the terms under which investors are willing to risk more money.”
I walked toward the door.
Behind me, Dad said, “Brooke.”
I stopped.
He sounded smaller than he had the night before.
“What happens if we refuse?”
I turned.
“Then Redstone doesn’t fund the next tranche.”
“And the bank?”
“That’s between you and the bank.”
His face answered the question.
Without Redstone, the bank likely wouldn’t lend either.
I opened the door.
Landon followed me into the hallway.
“You planned this.”
I looked at him.
“No, Landon.”
I glanced back toward the office.
“You did.”
Six weeks afterward, I learned how right I’d been.
The auditors found $1.14 million.
That figure headed the report.
$1.14 million in payments made over thirty-four months to a consulting company called Blue Ridge Strategic Advisors.
The invoices appeared credible.
Expansion analysis.
Vendor negotiations.
Site-development consulting.
Market-entry strategy.
Yet Blue Ridge employed only one full-time worker.
His name was Trevor Ames.
Trevor was Landon’s University of Tennessee fraternity brother.
The auditors kept digging.
Some funds did pay for genuine services.
A lot had not.
There were renovations to a lake house owned by an LLC tied to Trevor.
Private travel.
A leased Porsche.
Furniture delivered to a luxury condo in Miami.
Tickets.
Restaurants.
Other payments eventually covered Landon-related expenses.
I read the report twice.
Then a third time.
I had spent years imagining what it would feel like to prove my brother wasn’t the genius Dad thought he was.
I expected satisfaction.
Instead, I felt sick.
Because Landon hadn’t simply wasted money.
He had been doing it while Whitmore Industrial laid off twenty-seven hourly workers and renegotiated health benefits at one of its plants.
Dad called a meeting at company headquarters in Murfreesboro.
Landon arrived with an attorney.
I came with Hannah and Redstone’s outside counsel.
Three audit binders awaited us on the conference table.
Dad sat at the head.
He seemed older than six weeks before.
“Tell me it’s wrong,” he said.
Landon crossed his arms.
“The report exaggerates everything.”
Dad didn’t raise his voice.
“Tell me the transfers are wrong.”
“They weren’t transfers to me.”
“Did company money pay for the Porsche?”
