Chapter 4 - The Debt Collector
The rain had stopped by nine the next morning, leaving Chicago smothered under a thick, grey blanket of mist. I left the girls in the motel room with the chain latch secured and explicit instructions not to open the door for anyone except me.
I had three hours before I needed to check out, and I had to see my mother.
The St. Jude Hospice Care Center sat on the edge of Lincoln Park—a quiet, brick building surrounded by old oak trees. As I walked through the sliding glass doors, the familiar smell of antiseptic, flowers, and quiet waiting wrapped around me like a cold blanket.
My mother, Clara, looked smaller every time I saw her. At fifty-eight, cancer had stolen her cheeks, her dark hair, and the bright, laughter-filled eyes that had defined my childhood. She lay propped up against three pillows, a thin plastic cannula feeding oxygen into her nose, her hands resting on the knitted blanket I had made her five years ago.
"Elena," she breathed, her voice like dry leaves scraping across pavement. She opened her eyes, a small, tired smile touching her lips. "You look... so tired, my sweet girl."
"I'm fine, Mom," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking her frail, cold hand in mine. "How are you feeling today?"
"Better than yesterday," she lied gently. "Where are my girls? Where are Poppy and Maisie?"
"They're... they're taking a nap," I said, leaning over to kiss her temple. "I wanted to come see you first."
The door to the room opened, and a woman in a sharp grey suit stepped inside holding a leather folder. It was Mrs. Gable, the director of financial services for the facility. She was a woman whose professional sympathy had worn thin years ago under the weight of unpaid medical bills.
"Mrs. Vance," Mrs. Gable said, not looking at my mother. "I need a moment of your time in the hallway."
I squeezed my mother's hand, gave her a reassuring nod, and followed the administrator into the carpeted corridor.
"We received a notice this morning, Elena," Mrs. Gable said, opening her folder. "The automatic guarantee payment from the O'Shea Trust was cancelled at 8:00 AM. As it stands, your mother's care is only covered through noon today."
A cold hand squeezed my chest. Fiona. She hadn't just kicked me out of the house; she was cutting off every lifeline I had left.
"There must be a mistake," I whispered, though I knew there wasn't. "The contract was signed for three months."
"The trust administrator—a Ms. Fiona O'Shea—issued a stop-payment order," Mrs. Gable replied neutrally. "If the balance of $4,500 is not settled by 2:00 PM today, we will have to transfer your mother to the county palliative facility on the West Side."
"County?" The word came out as a gasp. The West Side county facility was a notorious, overcrowded building where patients lay in corridors waiting for pain medication. My mother wouldn't survive three days in a place like that. "Please. Give me until Friday. I'll find the money. I'll take extra shifts—"
"You already owe this facility six thousand dollars from the previous months, Elena," Mrs. Gable said, closing the folder with a soft snap. "We have been more than patient because of your husband's passing. But without a valid guarantor, we cannot keep her here. 2:00 PM."
She turned and walked down the hall, her heels clicking rhythmically against the linoleum.
I slumped against the wall, sliding down until my knees hit the carpet. I buried my face in my hands and let out a sound that wasn't a cry, but a ragged, broken moan.
Toby was gone. My mother was dying. My children were sitting in a sixty-five-dollar motel room eating dry cereal out of a plastic cup. And the man I had dared to love was trapped inside a fortress surrounded by people who viewed me as a parasite.
"Elena?"
I looked up. Standing ten feet away, at the end of the corridor, were two men in dark wool coats. One of them was broad-shouldered, with a deep scar running from his ear to his collarbone.
Liam Vance.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I scrambled to my feet, backing away toward my mother's room. "Stay away from me. Fiona already got what she wanted. Leave us alone."
Liam raised his hands, palms open, taking two slow steps forward. He didn't look like a hitman; his face was filled with a strange, respectful solemnity.
"I'm not here for Fiona, Mrs. Vance," Liam said softly, his voice surprisingly deep and gentle. "I'm here for Mr. O'Shea."
May you like
He reached into his inner coat pocket, and for a second I flinched, expecting a weapon. Instead, he pulled out a thick, heavy black phone.
"He wants to talk to you."
