Chapter 5 - The Motel Room Audit
The O'Hare Extended Stay smelled of industrial carpet cleaner and old cigarette smoke that had been painted over three times.
When I pushed the door open, the sight inside was almost comedic in its misery. Three days ago, my family had been the elite of the Gold Coast. Now, my mother was sitting on a yellowing polyester floral sofa, her cream silk blouse stained with coffee, her fingers missing the five-carat diamond ring that had been seized by the receivers on Tuesday afternoon.
Chloe lay on the twin bed in the corner, still wearing the satin robes from the bridal suite, her eyes swollen into red slits, her face completely free of makeup. She looked thirty-five instead of twenty-four.
My father stood by the small kitchenette, a paper cup of motel coffee in his hand, his suit trousers wrinkled, his tie missing. When he saw me walk in, his face went from grey to a dark, dangerous red.
"You brat," he hissed, taking two steps toward me before Caruso—the heavy-set head of security Marcus had assigned to accompany me—stepped into the doorway behind me, his arms folded across his dark suit jacket. My father stopped.
"Harper," my mother gasped, standing up from the sofa, her hands reaching out as if she were about to beg for a charity donation. "Thank God you’re here. You need to call Marcus Vance. Tell him there’s been a clerical error. The marshals took your father’s personal retirement accounts. They took my grandmother's silver. Tell them we didn't know about Julian's business."
"You knew about his money, Mom," I said, standing near the door, not stepping into the small room. "That was the only thing you cared about. You were so busy making sure Chloe married into the New York registry that you didn't even check if his company had an office or a balance sheet."
"You did this," Chloe screamed from the bed, sitting up and pointing a trembling, unwashed finger at me. "You were jealous! You couldn't stand that I was marrying a billionaire while you were just a corporate clerk! You ruined my life!"
I looked at my sister. The girl who had spent her entire life taking my old dresses, my old essays, my old savings, and then cutting my hair in the dark so I wouldn't look too bright on her big day.
"Your billionaire was using your wedding to clear twelve million dollars in illegal secondary bonds, Chloe," I said, my voice completely flat. "If the FBI hadn't stopped the ceremony, you’d be sitting in a federal detention center in West Virginia right now as a co-conspirator. I didn't ruin your life. I gave you your name back. Not that it’s worth much today."
My father slammed his paper cup into the laminate sink. "What do you want, Harper? Did you come here to gloat? To look at us?"
"I came to bring you these," I said, pulling three documents from my bag and dropping them onto the formica dining table. "These are the official eviction exemptions for your remaining personal vehicles and your personal clothing. I signed the corporate surety bond this morning as the receiver for the Sterling assets. The government won't take your clothes or your cars. But you have forty-eight hours to leave this O'Hare block."
My father stared at the documents, his fingers twitching. He looked at my new, sharp haircut, the expensive tailored coat I was wearing, and the black leather bag that cost more than his remaining checking account.
"Where are we supposed to go?" my mother wept, dropping back onto the yellow sofa. "We don't have a house, Harper. We don't have a club. Everyone is talking about us on the news. The font on the blog called us the 'Great Lakes Grifters.'"
"There’s a small two-bedroom rental in Rockford," I said, turning back toward the door where Caruso was waiting. "The rent is twelve hundred a month. I’ve paid the first three months from my consulting company. After that, Dad, you can find a local accounting firm that needs a junior tax preparer. I hear they don't look too closely at your background if you work the night shift."
May you like
As I stepped out into the damp concrete hallway of the motel, my father called out my name—not with anger, but with a strange, pathetic note of need that I had never heard from him before.
I didn't turn around. The door clicked shut, and for the first time in twenty-six years, I didn't care if they were warm or cold.
