Chapter 3 - The Cold Reality
By midnight, Diane and Vanessa were forced to check into a dingy, twenty-dollar-a-night roadside motel on the outskirts of the county.
The room smelled of stale tobacco and bleach. The yellowed wallpaper was peeling near the ceiling, and the single radiator clanked rhythmically like a dying engine.
Vanessa sat on the edge of the stained mattress, wrapped in a thin scratchy blanket, her phone battery at four percent.
“Call your friends, Mom!” Vanessa whined. “Call Aunt Sarah! Call Uncle Robert! Someone has to lend us money!”
Diane sat in a plastic chair by the window, staring out at the neon sign buzzing outside. “I already called them, Vanessa. All of them.”
“And? What did they say?”
Diane let out a bitter, lifeless laugh. “Sarah said that Clara called her three days ago and showed her the bank statements showing how much money I’d stolen from her trust. Robert told me that if I ever call his house again, he’ll report me to the police himself.”
“They’re taking her side?!” Vanessa gasped in outrage. “She’s a cold-hearted snake! She threw her own mother out in the rain!”
“She didn't throw us out, Vanessa,” Diane whispered, her voice finally breaking as the horror of her reality settled in. “We threw her out. And she let us do it because she knew we were walking off a cliff.”
Suddenly, a loud, heavy fist slammed against the flimsy wooden door of the motel room.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Vanessa jumped off the bed, clutching her blanket to her chest. “Who is that? Is it the police?”
Diane froze in her chair.
“Diane Vance!” a raspy, booming voice shouted from the hallway outside. “We know you’re in there! Open this door before we take it off the hinges!”
Diane’s blood turned to ice. It wasn't the police.
It was Victor Vance—no relation to us—the notorious private enforcement agent for the hard-money lending syndicate Richard Reed had owed money to.
Diane crept to the door, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she pulled the brass chain latch. She opened the door two inches.
Standing in the dimly lit motel hallway were three tall men in leather jackets. The leader, a scarred man with dark eyes, held a thick manila folder in his gloved hand.
“Victor...” Diane rasped, her voice barely a whisper. “How did you find us?”
“You left your luxury car parked outside a twenty-dollar motel, Diane,” Victor sneered, shoving the door open with his boot, forcing his way into the small room. His two men followed, blocking the exit. “Not very smart for someone who owes my employer eight hundred thousand dollars.”
“We... we need more time!” Diane pleaded, backing up against the dresser. “Clara... my daughter... she’s settling the trust!”
Victor let out a dry, cruel laugh. “Your daughter filed a formal Notice of Identity Fraud with the State Attorney General’s office at five o’clock today, lady. The home-equity loan application you gave us is worthless. It’s paper trash.”
Vanessa backed into the bathroom corner, trembling. “Get out! We’ll call the police!”
Victor turned his cold gaze onto Vanessa. “Call them. Please. Let’s tell the officers about the three hundred thousand dollars in forged wire transfers you signed using Clara’s identity over the last eighteen months. I’m sure federal prison has great room service.”
He turned back to Diane, leaning in close.
May you like
“You have seventy-two hours to produce five hundred thousand dollars in cash,” Victor whispered coldly. “Or my people will start seizing assets. Starting with that fancy car outside, and ending with whatever jewelry you have hidden in those wet cardboard boxes.”
Victor turned on his heel and walked out, slamming the door so hard the glass lamp on the nightstand shattered on the carpet.
