Story code: ST-001103
Part 1: The Scripted Excuse
My contractor brother-in-law Greg ruined our kitchen, leaving us with exposed wires and dangling drywall, and instead of answering my calls, he sent his teenage son Toby to deliver a scripted excuse. Standing in the dust of our unfinished kitchen, my husband Mark echoed Greg’s complaints, blaming me for stressing Greg out. I stared at Toby, who was nervously reciting a coached line about why the work had stalled, unaware that a single wrong word was about to expose a massive family fraud.
Six weeks ago, this room was supposed to be transformed into a bright, modern space. Instead, it was a skeletal vault of bare wood studs and yellow fiberglass insulation. Live electrical wires hung like orange-tipped vines from the ceiling, their copper ends capped with plastic wire nuts. We had been washing our dishes in the bathroom tub, our microwave perched precariously on a cardboard box in the hallway. I had paid Greg a ten-thousand-dollar deposit, but for the past three weeks, the house had been dead silent.
Every time I called Greg, it went straight to voicemail. When I texted, I got one-word answers hours later. Today, he hadn’t even shown up to pick up his heavy canvas tool bag. He had sent Toby, his sixteen-year-old son, to fetch it.
“Greg is doing us a favor by fitting us into his schedule, Sarah,” Mark said, leaning against the lone sheet of drywall Greg’s crew had managed to hang. “You’re hovering. You’re calling him constantly. If you keep nagging him, he’s just going to walk away from the job entirely.”
I looked at Mark, disbelief tightening my chest. “He already walked away, Mark. Look around. Nobody has hammered a nail here in twenty days.”
Toby stood near the back door, clutching the strap of the heavy tool bag. He looked everywhere but at me, his eyes darting from the exposed pipes to the plastic sheeting taped over the dining room archway.
“Dad said to tell you the county inspector is backlogged,” Toby said, his voice flat, repeating the words like he had memorized them on the drive over. “He said they haven’t signed off on the rough-in yet, so we can’t close up the walls.”
“But Toby,” I said, stepping closer to him, “the plumbing inspector was scheduled for last Tuesday. I took the day off work to wait, and nobody showed up. Did your dad actually schedule the reinspection?”
Toby shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “He just said the inspector is backlogged. He said the city is behind on all the rough-in approvals.”
“If the inspector hasn’t signed off, why did your dad pull the crew off the framing?” I asked. “They could still work on the pantry.”
“I don’t know,” Toby mumbled, his face turning a blotchy red under the harsh light of the temporary work lamp. “He just told me to tell you the inspector is backlogged.”
“Sarah, let it go,” Mark snapped, crossing his arms. “The kid doesn’t know the scheduling details. Greg will get it sorted when the county clears the backlog. You’re putting Toby in the middle of this.”
I ignored Mark, watching Toby. The kid was practically vibrating with tension, his hand white on the canvas bag strap. He took a step backward toward the door.
“Dad said the imposter is backlogged,” Toby blurted out, trying to push past me. “So we can’t do anything else.”
I froze. The word hung in the dusty air between us.
“The imposter?” I repeated.
Toby’s eyes went wide, and he immediately clamped his mouth shut, his face draining of color.
My contractor brother-in-law Greg ruined our kitchen, leaving us with exposed wires and dangling drywall, and instead of answering my calls, he sent his teenage son Toby to deliver a scripted excuse. Standing in the dust of our unfinished kitchen, my husband Mark echoed Greg’s complaints, blaming me for stressing Greg out. I stared at Toby, who was nervously reciting a coached line about why the work had stalled, unaware that a single wrong word was about to expose a massive family fraud.
Six weeks ago, this room was supposed to be transformed into a bright, modern space. Instead, it was a skeletal vault of bare wood studs and yellow fiberglass insulation. Live electrical wires hung like orange-tipped vines from the ceiling, their copper ends capped with plastic wire nuts. We had been washing our dishes in the bathroom tub, our microwave perched precariously on a cardboard box in the hallway. I had paid Greg a ten-thousand-dollar deposit, but for the past three weeks, the house had been dead silent.
Every time I called Greg, it went straight to voicemail. When I texted, I got one-word answers hours later. Today, he hadn’t even shown up to pick up his heavy canvas tool bag. He had sent Toby, his sixteen-year-old son, to fetch it.
“Greg is doing us a favor by fitting us into his schedule, Sarah,” Mark said, leaning against the lone sheet of drywall Greg’s crew had managed to hang. “You’re hovering. You’re calling him constantly. If you keep nagging him, he’s just going to walk away from the job entirely.”
I looked at Mark, disbelief tightening my chest. “He already walked away, Mark. Look around. Nobody has hammered a nail here in twenty days.”
Toby stood near the back door, clutching the strap of the heavy tool bag. He looked everywhere but at me, his eyes darting from the exposed pipes to the plastic sheeting taped over the dining room archway.
“Dad said to tell you the county inspector is backlogged,” Toby said, his voice flat, repeating the words like he had memorized them on the drive over. “He said they haven’t signed off on the rough-in yet, so we can’t close up the walls.”
“But Toby,” I said, stepping closer to him, “the plumbing inspector was scheduled for last Tuesday. I took the day off work to wait, and nobody showed up. Did your dad actually schedule the reinspection?”
Toby shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “He just said the inspector is backlogged. He said the city is behind on all the rough-in approvals.”
“If the inspector hasn’t signed off, why did your dad pull the crew off the framing?” I asked. “They could still work on the pantry.”
“I don’t know,” Toby mumbled, his face turning a blotchy red under the harsh light of the temporary work lamp. “He just told me to tell you the inspector is backlogged.”
“Sarah, let it go,” Mark snapped, crossing his arms. “The kid doesn’t know the scheduling details. Greg will get it sorted when the county clears the backlog. You’re putting Toby in the middle of this.”
I ignored Mark, watching Toby. The kid was practically vibrating with tension, his hand white on the canvas bag strap. He took a step backward toward the door.
“Dad said the imposter is backlogged,” Toby blurted out, trying to push past me. “So we can’t do anything else.”
I froze. The word hung in the dusty air between us.
“The imposter?” I repeated.
Toby’s eyes went wide, and he immediately clamped his mouth shut, his face draining of color.