Chapter 5 - The Last Stand
By late November, the autumn leaves had fallen, leaving the campus trees bare and skeletal against the grey sky. Two weeks before final exams, the pressure was suffocating, but for the first time in my life, I was thriving. I was pulling straight A's in my economics and finance classes. My professors noticed my work ethic; I wasn't just a student, I was a survivor who treated every lecture like a lifeline.
I was walking out of the science pavilion after a late-night chemistry lab when I noticed a figure sitting on a stone bench beneath the shadow of the library clock tower.
The figure stood up as I approached. It was Brandon.
He didn't have his customized Ford Raptor anymore. He had arrived in a battered, ten-year-old sedan that belonged to our elderly Aunt Clara. His designer clothes looked rumpled, his hair was greasy and unwashed, and the golden-boy sheen that had protected him his entire life had been completely tarnished by two months of real-world gravity.
"Ava," he said, stepping into my path. He reached out as if to grab my arm, but I instantly took a step back, keeping my heavy, textbook-stuffed backpack firmly between us.
"What are you doing here, Brandon? The state investigators explicitly issued a no-contact order during the active investigation."
"The investigators aren't here!" he shouted, his voice cracking, drawing sharp looks from a group of passing students. He quickly lowered his voice, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. "Ava, look at me. I'm ruined. The state bar association rejected my moral character application. They won't even let me sit for the exam. I'm working at a car wash, Ava. A car wash! People I went to high school with are driving by, watching me dry their rims!"
"Lots of people work at car washes, Brandon. It's honest work. Something you aren't used to."
"It's not work for me!" he hissed, taking a step closer, his breath smelling faintly of cheap fast food. "Dad’s defense attorney says that if you sign a new affidavit—just a simple statement saying the corporate files you took were incomplete or that you misinterpreted the iPad data—the District Attorney might drop the grand larceny and identity theft charges against Dad. If you do that, the bank might release some of the frozen personal assets. We can stop the foreclosure. We can get the house back. We can be a family again."
He looked at me with the exact same expression he had worn since childhood—the puppy-dog eyes he used when he wanted me to do his chores, or when he wanted me to tell Dad that the dent in the family car wasn't his fault. It was an expression that expected compliance because compliance was my designated role in our family.
"And what happens to the ninety-thousand-dollar loan?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. "The one with my forged signature?"
Brandon shifted his weight, his eyes darting away for a split second. "We'll... we'll figure that out later. Once the firm's assets are unfrozen, Dad will pay it off. I swear he will."
A cold, clear wave of clarity washed over me. He was still lying. Even now, standing on the campus of the university he had tried to prevent me from attending, he was still trying to trade my life for his comfort.
"The state investigators already verified the signatures, Brandon," I said softly. "They used a forensic document examiner. They know Dad signed my name on the lines of credit. And more importantly, they know you notarized them. Do you know what the penalty for notary fraud and identity theft is in this state?"
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Brandon went completely still. His mouth opened slightly, his eyes wide with absolute terror as the finality of his situation hit him.
"I'm not signing anything, Brandon," I said, stepping around him. "Go home. Or what's left of it."
