Chapter 8 - JAVIER RAN
Javier missed a required court appearance on Thursday.
His attorney claimed he couldn’t reach him.
By Friday morning, his apartment was empty.
His leased car had been abandoned near the airport.
For twelve terrifying hours, everyone assumed he had boarded a flight.
He hadn’t.
His passport showed no international departure.
Then Rachel discovered the $90,000 transfer.
Alvarez Pacific Trading.
Destination:
A Nevada casino account.
Wyatt stared at me.
“He went gambling?”
“Apparently.”
“After all this?”
“Apparently.”
Javier had not fled to Mexico.
Or Europe.
Or some secret island.
He drove to Las Vegas.
The police located him at a hotel after a banking alert.
He had already lost nearly $22,000.
I sat at my kitchen counter when Rachel told me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I laughed.
I couldn’t help it.
“Naomi?”
“He stole money and ran to Vegas.”
“Yes.”
“That’s his master plan?”
“People under pressure often make terrible decisions.”
“He spent four years telling me he was the smartest person in every room.”
Rachel smiled.
“People who need to announce that usually aren’t.”
The missing funds were frozen before most disappeared.
His settlement became more complicated.
His legal problems became worse.
And for the first time, I stopped being afraid of what he might do.
Not because he became harmless.
Because I finally understood that Javier’s greatest weapon had always been confidence.
He made everyone believe he knew more than they did.
Lydia.
Martin.
Camila.
Me.
Once people stopped believing him, his power evaporated.
The criminal investigation moved forward.
Javier eventually accepted responsibility for unauthorized financial transfers and fraudulent documents under an agreement negotiated by his attorneys.
The precise consequences took months to resolve.
Restitution was ordered.
Certain accounts were seized.
His professional reputation disappeared.
Alvarez Pacific Trading collapsed before importing a single legitimate product.
Camila recovered part of her investment through civil proceedings.
Martin lost his job and professional standing but avoided harsher consequences by cooperating fully and repaying what he had received.
Lydia sold Desert Rose Lifestyle’s remaining inventory.
The proceeds went toward reimbursing Solara.
She also sold her luxury SUV.
That one bothered her more than almost anything.
“I loved that car,” she told Wyatt during one of the final mediation meetings.
He replied, “I loved that chicken drumstick.”
I had to leave the room because I was laughing too hard.
Months passed.
The divorce became final on a Tuesday morning.
There was no dramatic music.
No cheering courtroom.
A judge signed documents.
Rachel hugged me.
I walked outside.
Phoenix sunlight hit my face.
And I was single.
I expected fireworks inside my chest.
Instead, I felt quiet.
Freedom does not always arrive loudly.
Sometimes it sounds like nobody telling you what you’re allowed to feel.
I went directly to Solara.
The employees had filled my office with flowers.
Priya left a note:
WELCOME BACK TO YOUR OWN LIFE.
I cried.
That afternoon, Wyatt called.
“Can you come to campus?”
“Why?”
“Just come.”
He waited outside the student center.
“What happened?”
He handed me a letter.
Dean’s List.
I screamed so loudly two students turned around.
“Naomi!”
“You made Dean’s List!”
“Yes.”
“You hate studying.”
“I’ve evolved.”
I hugged him.
“I’m proud of you.”
Then he handed me another piece of paper.
“What is this?”
“A job offer.”
He had applied for a paid summer internship with an agricultural technology company.
Not because he needed me to support him.
Because he wanted experience.
“They work with small farms,” he said.
“Dad will love that.”
“That’s the idea.”
I looked at my little brother.
The boy Lydia had called a freeloader had earned scholarships, made Dean’s List, and found his own internship within one year of arriving in Phoenix.
I wished I could go back to that dinner and show her.
Then I realized I didn’t need to.
Living well would do it for me.
Life became calmer.
My parents visited more.
I visited Wyoming again.
Dad put me to work on the farm within thirty minutes.
“You own a cosmetics company,” I complained.
“You still know how to carry boxes.”
Mom fed me constantly.
One evening, we sat outside watching the sunset.
“I lost four years with you,” I said.
Mom took my hand.
“No.”
“It feels like it.”
“We’re sitting here now.”
That became another lesson.
Regret can become its own kind of prison if you spend all your time counting what disappeared.
Better to notice what returned.
My family returned.
My confidence returned.
My business stabilized.
Even my apartment felt different.
I replaced the dining table.
Not with anything expensive.
A long oak table.
Eight seats.
Wyatt looked at it when it arrived.
“Planning something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Dinner.”
“With eight people?”
“With whoever shows up.”
He smiled.
Then, almost a year after that first terrible dinner, Lydia called me.
We rarely spoke.
She had moved into a smaller apartment.
Started working part-time at a department store.
For the first time in years, she was supporting herself.
“I want to ask something,” she said.
“What?”
“May I come to Thanksgiving?”
I was silent.
She rushed to explain.
“I understand if the answer is no.”
“Does Wyatt know you’re asking?”
“No.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
Wyatt surprised me.
“Let her come.”
“Really?”
“She apologized.”
“You said you didn’t forgive her.”
“I didn’t then.”
“And now?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t want to spend my life angry about chicken.”
So Lydia came.
She brought dessert.
Store-bought.
Nobody trusted her cooking.
Dinner was awkward for the first fifteen minutes.
Then Dad told a story about Wyatt getting chased by a goat when he was ten.
Mom laughed.
Lydia laughed.
Even I laughed.
Javier wasn’t there.
His absence didn’t feel like an empty chair.
It felt like space.
At the end of dinner, Lydia approached Wyatt.
“Thank you for letting me come.”
He nodded.
Then Lydia looked at the platter.
One chicken drumstick remained.
She picked it up.
Placed it on Wyatt’s plate.
“Please.”
Everyone went silent.
Wyatt looked at it.
Then at Lydia.
“Do I have permission?”
Lydia covered her face.
Dad nearly fell out of his chair laughing.
Even Lydia laughed eventually.
And with that, one of the ugliest memories of our family lost some of its power.
May you like
But the $150,000 had one final chapter.
Because I had decided what to do with it.
