Chapter 7 - The Cost of Collusion
Thursday arrived with a thin, icy rain that lacquered the asphalt of Northwood Avenue.
By noon, the deadline for Jocelyn’s monthly auto loan payment to Ally Financial expired. Because I had unlinked my account and deleted the recurring ACH instruction on Saturday night, the draft bounced back as uncollectible. And because Jocelyn’s credit profile was already flagged with two previous thirty-day delinquencies from the year before, the computer system at the financing division did not grant a grace period.
At 1:15 PM, an email arrived from Clara.
*Attached is a courtesy copy of the letter sent this morning to Victoria Howell and her mother, Mrs. Eleanor Howell, as well as the Executive Board of the Tenant Foundation. It includes a certified copy of the IP subpoena results, a notarized affidavit from our forensic digital consultant, and a formal explanation of the unauthorized breach that resulted in the forged cancellations.*
*Ball’s in their court,* Clara added in the body. *Legally, this insulates you from any claim that Prior Events engaged in breach of contract or gross negligence.*
Before I could reply, my doorbell rang downstairs.
I stood up, walked down the carpeted stairs of my townhouse, and checked the high-resolution feed on my phone from the front porch camera.
Standing on the doormat under an oversized black umbrella was my mother.
Diane looked smaller than she had on Saturday, but her face was pinched with the familiar, righteous grievance that had policed our family for three decades. She wore her camel-hair coat, buttoned tight to the throat, her leather handbag clutched against her ribs like a shield.
Behind her, parked at the curb, was Neil’s shop truck. Neil was behind the wheel, staring straight ahead through the windshield wipers, his jaw set in rigid misery.
I did not open the door. I unlocked the secondary deadbolt, pushed the door open two inches until the heavy brass security chain caught, and stood behind the frame.
"Hello, Diane."
Her head jerked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale without her usual makeup.
"Lauren," she said, her voice shaking with a mixture of rage and desperation. "Take this chain off. Let me in out of this rain."
"You are not coming in," I said. "Clara Reynolds served you with a formal trespass warning on Tuesday morning. If you do not leave the stoop in thirty seconds, I will call the Northwood precinct."
"I am your mother!" she hissed, taking a step closer, her fingers clutching the damp doorframe. "How dare you treat me like a criminal! Jocelyn is at home having a nervous breakdown! A flatbed tow truck pulled into her driveway two hours ago and hooked her car while the girls were watching from the living room window! They took her Explorer right out of the driveway, Lauren!"
"She owed four hundred and eighty-seven dollars to Ally Financial," I replied, voice even. "I told her on Sunday morning when the payment was due. She chose not to pay it."
"With what money?" Diane cried. "Neil’s shop is barely breaking even this quarter! And you canceled the house transfer! The bank sent an overdraft notice this morning for my mortgage payment! I have lived in that house for thirty-four years, Lauren! Your father built that deck!"
"And for five years, I paid eleven hundred dollars every single month to keep you in it," I said, looking her squarely in the eyes through the narrow opening. "While you sat in the kitchen and helped Jocelyn plan how to steal thirty-five thousand dollars out of my business accounts. I heard you through the window, Diane. I heard you ask her, *'And the Howell wedding?'*"
Diane flinched. The anger in her face flickered, replaced for a single, naked second by pure, cornered panic.
"I... I didn't mean anything by that," she whispered, her voice losing its edge. "Jocelyn was just venting. She was jealous, Lauren. You have always been the capable one. You’ve always had so much, and she’s had to struggle—"
"I worked eighty hours a week while raising Milo alone after Mark left us with nothing," I said. "I did not inherit a business. I built it out of my savings while you told me I was foolish not to find another husband to support me. You didn't protect me then. And you didn't protect my son when your favorite daughter sliced his birthday present to ribbons."
"It was a bicycle!" Diane shouted, tears finally breaking over her mascara. "It was a damn child’s toy! You are destroying this entire family over a child's toy!"
"No," I said softly. "The bike was just the moment I stopped lying to myself about who you are."
I closed the door.
I slid the heavy deadbolt into place. On the porch, Diane pounded her fist twice against the wood, screaming my name, but the sound was muffled by the thick insulation. Through the window beside the stairs, I watched Neil step out of the truck, take Diane firmly by the arm, and guide her down the walk despite her protests.
He didn't look back at the house. He opened the passenger door, helped her inside, and drove away into the gray rain.
May you like
I stood in the quiet hallway of my home. The air smelled of clean linen and cedar. I took a deep, steady breath, walked back up to my desk, and resumed my work.
***
