The confrontation had happened, of all places, in a small storage unit behind their parents’ house, the kind of place two brothers go to talk where their mother will not hear.

“Tell me the truth,” Sebastian had said.

Santiago had tried, at first, to brush it off, to condescend.

“You don’t understand how corporate sales work,” he had said.

And Sebastian had laid the forged receipts on the table between them and said the sentence that I think about often.

“I understand fraud.”

Santiago had broken down and begged for a month to fix it.

Sebastian had given him one week, one week to go before the board himself and confess, and had quietly protected himself and the truth by sending everything to Diego.