Chapter 6 - The Price of Looking PoorHelen Cole was watering the plants when Ethan arrived.
She lived in a modest two-story house outside New Haven, the same home where Ethan had grown up.
The porch needed repainting.
One of the kitchen cabinets had a loose hinge.
And the old garage behind the house still smelled faintly of engine oil and coffee.
Ethan had offered to buy her a larger home.
She refused.
“Your father spent thirty years fixing this place,” she always said. “I'm not leaving because somebody decided you have money now.”
That afternoon, she opened the front door and looked at her son.
“You're early.”
“Meeting ended sooner than expected.”
“What meeting?”
Ethan hesitated.
“Sterling House Motors.”
Helen's expression changed.
“Why would you go there?”
He stepped inside.
“I saw Dad's Ferrari in their inventory.”
Helen stopped.
“The red one?”
“Yes.”
“The one he wouldn't approve?”
Ethan nodded.
Helen walked toward the kitchen table.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she turned.
“Ethan, your father wanted that business behind him.”
“He wanted the truth.”
“He wanted peace.”
“He never got it.”
Helen looked at him sadly.
Samuel's final months had been difficult.
The disputed professional complaint had damaged his reputation.
Several clients stopped calling.
He began working longer hours to compensate for lost income.
After his death, Helen discovered invoices he had never been paid and letters he had been too proud to discuss.
Ethan had offered to pursue the matter.
But grief, work, and the difficulty of proving what happened made him postpone it.
Now he regretted waiting.
Helen noticed his expression.
“What happened at the showroom?”
Ethan sat down.
He took the envelope from his pocket.
Inside were two broken pieces of black metal.
Helen stared.
“What is that?”
“My card.”
“Your American Express?”
“Yes.”
She looked confused.
“How did it break?”
“The manager snapped it.”
Helen sat slowly.
“On purpose?”
Ethan nodded.
“Why?”
“Because he thought I was pretending to have money.”
Helen studied him.
“Did you tell him who you are?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Ethan looked surprised.
“Good?”
His mother leaned forward.
“Son, if someone needs to know your bank balance before treating you decently, showing them your bank balance won't make them decent.”
Ethan smiled faintly.
Samuel would have said something similar.
Helen glanced at his coat.
“Still wearing that old thing?”
“Yes.”
“You know you can afford another one.”
“I have others.”
“Then why that one?”
Ethan touched the mismatched button.
“Dad fixed it.”
Helen's expression softened.
“I remember.”
She had watched Samuel sew the button one evening while complaining that the needle was too small for his fingers.
He'd spent twenty minutes on a job Helen could have finished in two.
But he'd insisted.
Because Ethan had been leaving for an investor meeting the next morning, and Samuel wanted him to look presentable.
Helen reached across the table.
“You miss him.”
“Every day.”
She nodded.
“So do I.”
Ethan placed the card fragments beside the envelope.
“There's something else.”
He told her about Derek's reaction when he requested the Ferrari's records.
The brief surprise.
The refusal.
The way Lauren looked down.
Helen listened carefully.
Then she stood.
“Come with me.”
She led him into Samuel's old workshop.
The tools remained organized on pegboards.
A calendar still hung near the workbench.
Ethan had preserved the room almost exactly as his father left it.
Helen opened a wooden drawer.
Inside was a small leather notebook.
Ethan recognized it.
“Dad's inspection journal.”
“He asked me to keep it.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I did.”
Ethan looked at her.
Helen sighed.
“After the funeral. You said you couldn't look at anything yet.”
He remembered.
He had been exhausted, overwhelmed by arrangements, and terrified that opening the notebook would make the loss permanent.
Now he took it carefully.
The leather cover was cracked.
Samuel's handwriting filled the pages.
Dates.
Vehicle identification numbers.
Mechanical observations.
Small sketches.
Near the end, Ethan found the Ferrari.
SF90 — VIN ending 614209.
Beneath it were notes about moisture intrusion, replaced components, and missing documentation.
The final entry was underlined twice.
Do not certify without independent records and full disclosure.
Ethan looked up.
Helen watched him.
“Your father was frightened after that inspection.”
“Of Derek?”
“Of what might happen if somebody sold the car without telling the truth.”
Ethan closed the notebook.
“Did he ever report it?”
“He tried. He wrote to the dealership's owner.”
“Vivian Sterling?”
Helen nodded.
“Never received a reply.”
Ethan stared at her.
“Do you still have the letter?”
Helen opened another drawer.
She removed a folder containing copies of Samuel's correspondence.
At the top was a letter addressed to Vivian Sterling.
Dated December 2023.
The final paragraph made Ethan's hands tighten.
I am concerned that inspection findings affecting a vehicle's value and potentially its safety are being omitted from the documentation provided to prospective purchasers.
Below it was Samuel's signature.
Ethan read the letter again.
Then he saw the mailing address.
Sterling House Motors.
Attention: Executive Office.
He looked at Helen.
“If Vivian never answered, maybe she never received it.”
Helen frowned.
“Your father thought the same thing.”
“Why?”
She opened the folder again.
Inside was a second envelope.
This one had been returned unopened.
Stamped across the front were three words.
DELIVERY REFUSED — RETURNED.
The handwritten initials beside the stamp were unfamiliar to Ethan.
May you like
But the printed name beneath them wasn't.
D. Sloane.
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