The next morning, the California sun had barely crested the horizon when the sound of steel biting into earth began echoing through the backyard.
Alan had taken the shovel Jake pointed out and attacked the ground near the old oak tree with the frantic, sweat-soaked desperation of a man digging his own grave, or rather, in this case, digging his way out of one.
It took about an hour for Judith to wake up, pour her organic green tea, and wander over to the kitchen window.
She stared, utterly bewildered, at the sight of her husband standing waist-deep in a dirt trench, his designer polo shirt ruined.
She slid the glass door open. "What exactly are you doing, Alan?"
Alan froze, his shovel suspended mid-air. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a very slow, very judgmental truck. "Oh... I'm just. I'm making a hole."
"I can see that," Judith said, her voice dripping with absolute exhaustion. "Why are you digging a hole in my backyard?"
"Well, it's—it's for the oak tree," Alan stammered, leaning on the shovel and trying to project a casual, authoritative aura while covered in mud. "I'm aerating the deep soil. It's an old... botanical principle. Like chiropractic adjustments, but for root systems. Relieving the subterranean pressure, you know?"
Judith glared at him and for a brief, terrifying second, her eyes narrowed in deep suspicion. But then the sheer exhaustion of being married to him washed over her.
She clearly didn't care enough about his pathetic excuse to investigate further. "Right. Well, good luck with your dirt."
Jake walked into the kitchen, his backpack already slung over one shoulder. It was time to deploy the distraction. "Mom, can we go down to that artisan farmer's market in Brentwood? I need specialized high-GSM graphing paper for my summer classes, and they have that boutique stationery stall you like."
Judith's rigid posture instantly softened. She turned to Jake with a sweet, maternal smile. "Of course, honey. Let me just go get my purse."
As she turned back to the yard, her face dropped into a mask of pure contempt. "I'll be back in an hour. Make sure that hole is covered by the time we return, Alan."
She turned on her heel and disappeared into the house. Jake shot a quick, subtle wink through the glass door as Alan responded with a breathless, incredibly grateful smile.
The moment Alan heard Judith's SUV pull out of the driveway, he attacked the dirt like a madman.
Ten minutes later, his shovel hit something hard with a dull thud. He dropped to his knees, clawing away the loose soil until he unearthed the heavy, waterproof lockbox.
"Oh, yes," Alan whimpered, pulling it to his chest. He popped the latch, saw the dull gleam of the bullion inside, and actually kissed the top of the box.
"Ptui!" He immediately started spitting out the loose earth that had clung to the lid, but he was grinning like a maniac.
A few days later, the tension in the dining room was thick enough to cut with a scalpel.
Alan had managed to quietly liquidate the gold, but ten thousand dollars was barely a bandage on an eighty-thousand-dollar hemorrhage. He had spent the week scrambling, trying to plug the remaining gaps before Judith noticed.
They were halfway through a tense, silent dinner when Judith's eyes locked onto Alan's left wrist.
"Where's your watch, Alan?"
Alan froze, a forkful of asparagus hovering near his mouth. "I'm sorry?"
"Your Submariner," she said, her voice sharp and analytical. "You never take it off. Your wrist is bare. What happened to it?"
"Oh. I... uh..." Alan swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the room. "I took it to the repair shop."
"Really? What was wrong with it?" Judith leaned forward, pretending to be casually curious, but her eyes were locked on him, which made Jake remember when James Doakes cornered Dexter Morgan.
"Well... it was that thing. The, uh... how do you call it, Jake?" Alan stammered, desperately throwing a lifeline toward his son.
Jake calmly set his fork down and saw exactly what his father was doing, but a collapsed Alan was a useless Alan. "The escapement mechanism," Jake provided, leaning on Argus' knowledge. "The mainspring wasn't holding kinetic tension, causing the balance wheel to lose synchronization."
"Yes!" Alan pointed at Jake eagerly. "Exactly that. The kinetic... wheel thing."
"Oh," Judith said smoothly. "You took it to the horologist on Ventura Boulevard?"
"Yes, that one," Alan nodded rapidly, thrilled to see a way out of the predicament. "Dropped it off yesterday."
"Huh. Weird," Judith said, taking a slow sip of her wine. "Because they closed last month. The owner retired to Scottsdale."
Alan stopped breathing.
"Oh! Well, then it was the other one," Alan pivoted wildly, his voice pitching up into a near-squeak. "The one on the corner. Opened last week. Sweetest old Swiss man. I have the claim ticket around here somewhere." He aggressively patted his empty pockets. "Ah, I must have left it in the car! You know what, look at the time, I should really take Jake to summer school. You just relax here, honey. Let's go, Jake!"
"Sure," Judith said softly, her eyes narrowing into a glare of absolute suspicion.
Alan practically dragged Jake out the front door and into the Chrysler.
The car ride to the summer school campus was painfully quiet. Alan was sweating through his shirt, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white. As he pulled up to the curb in front of the school, he finally looked over at his son.
"Jake, you know... your mother really doesn't have to know about the... nautical business. Or the watch."
"I know, Dad," Jake said, his voice entirely devoid of childhood innocence. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."
"Thank you, buddy," Alan exhaled, wiping his forehead.
"Oh, I also need you to sign this." Jake unzipped his backpack, pulled out a thick clipboard, and handed it across the console along with a pen.
Alan blinked, looking down at the document. "What's this? A commercial lease agreement? A warehouse? Jake, why on earth do you need four hundred square feet of industrial zoning in the Valley?"
Jake didn't answer. He just sat there, fixing Alan with an, unblinking, perfectly calculated stare. He didn't need to explain his server farm, his hardware storage, or his shell companies. He just needed a legal adult's signature.
Alan stared back. He opened his mouth to argue, to assert some form of parental authority, but the words died in his throat. Since the boat fiasco, the power dynamic had shifted and he had zero leverage.
"Alright. I'm signing," Alan sighed exasperatedly, scribbling his name on the dotted line and handing the clipboard back.
"Thanks, Dad. See you later," Jake said, stepping out of the car and smoothly closing the door.
Alan watched his ten-year-old son walk into the high school building.
Alan let out a long, defeated sigh and rested his head against the steering wheel. He was knee deep in trouble and loans.
To cover the remaining seventy thousand dollars of the sunken boat, he had been forced to sell his prized Rolex, take out a brutal second lien on his leased Chrysler, and commit to working double shifts at the chiropractic clinic just to make the interest payments. All of this just to ensure Judith didn't see a single piece of paper linking him to the disaster.
But as he put the car in drive, Alan forced a weak smile onto his face, since he had handled it, had taken care of the loans, buried the notices, and hidden the evidence. The chances of Judith finding out were incredibly low.
Once these loans are paid off, Alan told himself, I'll be relaxed again. I can go back to being the respected, authoritative patriarch of this house.
"Just a few months," he muttered to the empty car as he pulled away from the curb.
"Everything is going to be fine."