The Account Review Followed The Deposits Past The Loft

Mara turned her screen so I could read the email myself.

Malcolm had sent Ben old instructions for handling the nine red-book jobs. The attached note was dated before the first of those deposits.

Don't buy cloth for these. Take full payment where you can. Keep delivery dates moving. I need the float until my luck turns.

Below it, his new message said, If anyone asks, tell them Ewa has the cutting work at home.

I read my name three times.

"I kept wondering whether he had some plan I didn't know about," I said.

"This is evidence of the plan he did have," Mara answered.

Ben confirmed he had received the email. He had quit after two days, before sewing any customer work. Malcolm had paid him $160 in cash and told him to leave the rest of his wages until Friday.

"I thought float meant a short loan," Ben told Lewis. "Then I saw there wasn't even cloth."

The bank records showed transfers from the shop account into Malcolm's personal account. His lawyer eventually produced the related statements and wagering records during discovery.

They showed repeated gambling losses.

Some losses were small enough to look harmless alone. Others were $2,000 or $3,500 at a time. Added together, they explained why he always expected next week to save us.

I remembered lunches when he had stared at his phone while I ate beside a half-sewn corner patch.

"One good turn," he used to say.

I had thought he meant business.

The strangest part was how ordinary the statements looked. A date. A transfer. A balance. There was no mark beside the money that had come from Alma's next trip or Tessa's savings.

I recognized one transfer date. That morning I had asked Malcolm for $460 to replace worn belts and buy needles. He had told me we needed to be lean until spring.

I had bought the supplies myself and entered them as money the partnership owed me. Lewis found that entry too. He included it in our final accounting, where it belonged.

"Did you suspect gambling?" he asked.

"I suspected he was hiding bills."

"Those aren't the same thing."

"No," I said. "They're not."

I wanted the report to show what I knew then, without borrowing what I knew now.

Lewis did not call every missing dollar stolen. He separated rent, wages, supplies, personal transfers, and fees. He checked what could still be collected from completed jobs.

His report found $21,300 in valid unpaid invoices for work already delivered. Those customers confirmed the work and paid the preserved business account through the wind-down process.

Added to the $9,300 already held, that made $30,600 available against $54,300 in customer claims.

The gap was $23,700.

"These figures may change if a payment fails or a claim is wrong," Lewis told us.

We waited for every payment to clear. We checked every claim.

The figures held.

Mara explained the risks to me without making them sound kind. A partnership debt did not vanish because one partner had lied. We needed a written settlement with the customers and Malcolm, backed by money and court orders.

"I understand," I said. "I won't sign another promise that lives on next week."

With the affected customers' permission, the evidence package also went to local investigators. Owen and Tessa gave their own statements. I gave mine separately. Nobody promised us charges or a quick result.

Meanwhile, I still needed to earn a living.

Malcolm finally dropped his claim to the machines. The court entered an order settling their ownership, released my bond, and allowed me to take them from storage.

I rented a ground-floor workroom near the boatyard for $850 a month. It had a low ceiling, good light, and a door wide enough for the long-arm table.

The landlord asked what I wanted on the lease.

"Ewa Kowalska, doing business as Blue Loop Sail Repair."

I read the equipment clause before I signed.

Alma helped carry in my cutting mat. Wes brought a used shelf and an apology.

"I should have asked you before repeating him," he said.

"Yes."

"And I shouldn't have given Owen your address."

"Also yes."

He nodded, set down the shelf, and asked where it belonged. I let him help.

Alma laid her sail across my new table. April fifth was close.

We agreed on a smaller repair scope: sound corners and safe reef points, leaving cosmetic work for later. The new price was $2,400, due when she collected it. Her old $3,600 claim stayed in the winding-down business.

"Put that in writing," she said.

"I already did."

For the first time in weeks, she smiled.

I worked until my shoulders ached. On April fourth, I slipped one blue loop inside the last reef patch and called her.

She arrived carrying two coffees and a folded paper she had found taped beside the marina office.

It claimed I had taken the shop's machines and abandoned its customers. At the bottom was Malcolm's signature.