I was halfway through a roofing estimate when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. I almost sent it to voicemail, but something in my gut said, “Pick up.”
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Cameron Martin?” The guy’s voice was low and scratchy.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“This is Frank. I’m with DeMarco’s Pawn and Gold over in Glendale. I believe I have something that belongs to you.”
I squinted at the phone, already annoyed. “What is it?”
“A Rolex Submariner. Stainless, black face. Inscription on the back says, ‘To Cam, love always, Dad.’”
My stomach dropped. I spun around in my chair and yanked open the bottom drawer of my desk. That’s where I kept it, always safe during work hours, wrapped in a microfiber cloth and tucked behind a stack of old invoices. It was gone.
My chest burned. My hands were shaking. I forced myself to speak. “Where’d you get it?”
“A young guy came in yesterday afternoon. Said it was his.”
I already knew. Tanner.
“This really isn’t something I want to explain over the phone,” Frank continued. “I think you should come down here.”
I didn’t ask for directions. I just grabbed my keys and walked out. The guys in the office called something after me, but the words were lost in the roaring in my ears. That watch was the only damn thing my dad left me when he died three years ago. No real estate, no life insurance, just the watch he wore every single day of his life.
I remember the last time he had it on. He was down to 140 pounds, his face sunken and gray from chemo, but his eyes were still sharp, still clear. He took the watch off, his hand trembling, and pressed it into my palm. “This is yours, Cam,” he’d said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Don’t let anyone take it from you.”
I should have kept it at home. I should have put it in a safe. I should have known my mother’s golden boy, her second husband’s son, Tanner, would pull some crap like this eventually. He thought he could take what wasn’t his. He was about to learn just how wrong he was.
DeMarco’s was wedged between a payday loan place and a busted vape shop in a half-dead strip mall. The windows were covered in metal bars, the sign half-lit. I marched in, the bell over the door jangling angrily. The place smelled like dust and desperation.
Behind the counter stood a man with a thick neck and tanned, leathery skin. “You Cam?” he asked, his voice like gravel.
“Yeah.”
He nodded once, his eyes assessing me. “You look like your old man. Same jaw.”
My throat tightened. Frank reached under the counter and produced a familiar blue leather box. He popped the latch and lifted the lid. There it was. My dad’s Rolex. The bezel was nicked at two o’clock, a scar from a kitchen remodel in Flagstaff.
“Who brought it in?” I asked, my voice tight.
“Kid said his name was Tanner. Tall, blonde, early twenties. Claimed it was his dad’s. Left to him.”
My fists curled at my sides.
“He didn’t look like you,” Frank continued, “and he sure as hell didn’t act like someone who’d earned a Rolex. Didn’t even know how to pronounce ‘Submariner.’ That’s when I started looking.” He reached under the counter again and pulled out an old paper folder. “Your dad ever mention pawning this watch before?”
“Never.”
“Well, he did. Brought it in sixteen years ago. Right around the time you’d be starting trade school. Took a loan out for thirty-five hundred. Paid it off in twenty-nine days. Cash.”
He handed me a photocopy of the ticket. My dad’s name, Russ Martin, was clear as day. He never said a word.
“This belongs to you,” Frank said, setting the box on the counter. “No question.” I reached out, my heart thudding, and lifted the watch. The weight of it was a familiar comfort in my hand. Then Frank cleared his throat.
“Found something else. Never seen this before.” He took the watch and pressed his pinky fingernail into a nearly invisible groove behind the clasp. A tiny latch popped open. Inside, folded tight, was a scrap of yellowed paper. He slid it out with tweezers.
My hands were sweating as I unfolded it. The handwriting punched me in the gut. My dad’s sharp, slanted, all-caps script.
CAM, IF YOU’RE READING THIS, GO TO SAFE DEPOSIT BOX 313 AT UNION FIRST. KEY’S IN MY SOCKET SET, BEHIND THE 5/8S.
I swallowed hard.
“No offense,” Frank said, “but your old man was the kind of guy who planned ahead. Most people hide weed in their watch. Yours hid instructions.”
I snorted despite myself. I slipped the watch onto my wrist and pocketed the note.
“Hey,” Frank called after me as I turned to leave. “That guy, Tanner. He looked nervous. Real nervous. I don’t think he thought he’d get caught.”
I pushed open the door, the Arizona heat hitting me in the face. “Oh, he’s caught,” I said. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
I drove straight to my mom’s place in Sun City. Her garage was open, her second husband Gary’s ridiculous golf cart half-blocking the walkway. I walked into the kitchen without knocking. They were sitting at the table, surrounded by bank statements and a legal pad with Tanner’s name scribbled across the top. I dropped the Rolex on the table with a solid thunk. “Lose something?”
My mom’s eyes locked on the watch like it had fangs. “Where’d you get that?” Gary asked, his voice too fast.
“It was reported stolen this morning,” I said, my voice low. “Funny thing, the pawn shop called me. Said a guy named Tanner sold it yesterday.”
“Cam,” my mom started, her face pale. “It’s not what you think.”
“You pawned it for Tanner,” I said, leaning over the table. “For his dumbass app idea.”
“He needed help! Just a little seed money!”
“That watch is the only thing Dad left me!” I snapped. “You knew that! You knew what it meant!”
“Tanner’s trying to build something!” she shouted. “He has vision! He’s not stuck installing gutters his whole life!”
I laughed, a bitter, angry sound. “Oh, so because I work with my hands, I don’t count?”
“You’ve always been small-time, Cam,” Gary jumped in. “No ambition. Tanner’s different.”
“Different? He stole from me. You backed him.”
“You have no idea what it’s like,” my mom said, her voice rising, “watching one son stay stuck while the other reaches for more!”
“You mean watching one work his ass off while the other drains everyone around him? You funded his fantasy with nine grand that wasn’t yours. I want it back. Every damn penny.”
“We already invested it,” Gary scoffed. “You can’t prove a thing.”
I pulled the folded police report from my back pocket and tossed it on the table. “Yeah, I can. The shop kept the record, security footage, serial number. It’s all in there.”
“Cam, don’t do this,” my mom pleaded, her eyes rimmed with red. “You’ll ruin everything for him.”
“He already launched,” I said, shaking my head. “Right into felony theft.”
I slipped the Rolex back on my wrist and walked to the door.
“You’d really throw away your family over this?” she called after me, her voice cracking.
I paused in the doorway. “Didn’t you do that for me?” I walked out and didn’t look back.
I drove to my dad’s old place. The house was a rental now, but the shed in the backyard was still locked up tight. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The smell of motor oil, sawdust, and rust hit me like a wave of nostalgia. Under a blue tarp in the corner was his rolling toolbox. I popped the top and ran my finger down the row of sockets until I hit the 5/8s. I pulled it out, and there, taped behind it, was a small brass key wrapped in wax paper.
I drove straight to Union First, an old brick building downtown. Ten minutes later, I was in a private room with a narrow metal box on the table. Inside was a dusty black ledger and a small, sealed envelope with “CAM” written in thick Sharpie. I broke the seal and unfolded the letter. His handwriting hit me like a freight train.
Cam, if you’re reading this, I guess I’m gone. The envelope holds bearer bonds, over $100,000 in value. No names, no banks, no taxes. The ledger holds invoices, jobs I finished but never got paid for. Some of those bastards ran off while I was in chemo. This isn’t just about money. It’s about time. Time to leave if you need to. Time to build your own thing. You don’t owe anyone your future, son. Not me, not your mom. Just do one thing. Make it yours. Dad.
I sat there for a long minute, then reached for the envelope of bonds. Crisp, clean, and untraceable. I flipped open the ledger. Every page was filled with his neat block letters. And there, at the top of the unpaid list, was a name I hadn’t seen in years: Reynolds and Bloom Construction. Flooring job. $18,500.
My dad hadn’t just left me money. He’d left me a paper trail. And I was about to follow it.
The next morning, I met with a lawyer my buddy had recommended, Carla Ramirez. Her office was nothing fancy, but the second I walked in, I knew she didn’t waste time.
“You’re the guy with the contractor ledger?” she asked, her no-nonsense eyes sizing me up. I handed her the folder.
“This is gold,” she said, flipping through the pages. “Full invoice, signatures, job details. Most guys just hand me a text and a receipt and expect to sue. This is airtight.” She landed on the Reynolds and Bloom section. “Eighteen-five unpaid. They thought the debt died with your dad.”
“But it didn’t.”
“Nope,” she said, a crooked smile on her face. “Not even close. Give me sixty days.”
While Carla went to work, I drove to my mom’s to get the last of my things. Tanner was there, grinning like we were old pals.
“Hey, man,” he said, leaning against my truck. “I know things got tense, but once the app launches, I’m going to make it right.”
“I want the nine grand back,” I said, my voice flat. “With interest.”
He laughed. “Yeah, when I make it big, sure.”
“I already reported the theft. Your name’s on file. The shop gave me everything—footage, receipt, ID. It’s all attached to the police report.”
The grin slid off his face.
“Cam, please,” my mom rushed down the steps. “Don’t ruin his life over a mistake.”
“He had no problem screwing up mine,” I said, turning to her. “You both watched him do it. You helped.”
“You think your father would be proud of this?” Gary finally stood up. “Walking away from your family?”
I didn’t even look back. “Yeah. He’d be proud I finally stood the hell up.” I got in my truck and drove away. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel guilty.
Carla moved fast. She cashed out the bonds first—$119,000, clean and untaxed. Then she went after the unpaid contracts. She hit Reynolds and Bloom with a public lien threat, copying their biggest client and attaching the ledger pages as exhibits. They folded in four days, wiring the full $18,500. Another nineteen grand rolled in from smaller jobs.
While all that was happening, I heard Tanner’s app had quietly tanked. He’d blown the Rolex money on a rented office suite and a fancy logo. Two months after I left, Gary called, asking for a “bridge loan.” I hung up. A week later, my mom emailed, blaming me for “dividing the family.” I didn’t reply. I just attached a copy of the police report with Tanner’s name highlighted and hit send.
The first thing I bought was a house. A single-story ranch, two bedrooms, big garage, just four blocks from where Dad used to live. I moved in on a Tuesday and parked his rolling toolbox in the garage.
The Rolex stays on my nightstand. Some nights, I open that hidden panel and reread his note, just to be sure. You don’t owe anyone your future.
I started taking handyman jobs around the neighborhood—toilets, drywall, ceiling fans. Honest labor, fair prices. Steady work. Mine. Every once in a while, someone will spot the Rolex and say, “Nice watch.”
I just smile. “Old family thing.”
Dad didn’t just leave me a watch. He left me time. Time to get out, to reset, to figure out what mattered. And now, I know exactly what to do with it.