Chapter 8 - The Freezing Point
When the temperature dropped to twenty-six degrees on Tuesday night, the pipes at 1442 Elmwood Drive began to sing.
Wren told me about it over the phone while she sat in her idling sedan in the bookstore’s parking lot.
“Dad was in the crawlspace with a space heater running off an extension cord plugged into Brent’s truck,” Wren said, her voice shaking slightly with equal parts disbelief and nervous laughter. “Brent was screaming because running the inverter was draining his battery, and Vanessa was upstairs packing her bags.”
“Vanessa is leaving?” I asked.
“She left two hours ago,” Wren said. “She called Brent a pathetic parasite who lives off his sister. When Dad’s boat got a repossession warning taped to the hull yesterday by the marina credit union, Vanessa realized Brent doesn't actually own a contracting business. She had an Uber pick her up at the curb.”
I leaned back against the headboard of Simone’s guest bed. The radiator beneath the window hummed quietly, filling the room with dry, comfortable warmth.
“Did Dad talk to the deputy who came by yesterday?”
“The deputy didn't arrest him—not yet,” Wren said. “He served him with the fraud investigation notice and a summons from the county clerk. Dad went completely white. He threw up in the kitchen sink, Cass. Mom was crying, asking him where the seventy-two thousand dollars went. He wouldn't answer her. He just locked himself in the den with his lockbox.”
“The money is gone, Wren,” I said softly. “He gave forty thousand of it to Brent for another failed venture, spent ten thousand on the boat’s engine overhaul, and used the rest to pay off his credit cards so his name looked clean on paper.”
“What happens to the house now?”
“First National initiated foreclosure on the primary mortgage this morning,” I said. “Because the payment bounced on the first and the account has a fraudulent lien flag from Ridgecrest, the bank accelerated the default timeline. They gave Dad thirty days to cure the full balance—twenty-one thousand dollars in back arrears and penalties—or the property goes to a trustee sale.”
Wren went quiet on the line.
“Are you scared, Wren?” I asked.
“No,” she said quietly. “For the first time in four years, I’m not scared. I’m just tired of pretending this family is normal.”
“Pack your remaining clothes tonight,” I told her. “Don't wait for the sheriff to put an eviction notice on the front door. Simone already cleared the pull-out sofa in her study. You’re coming here.”
“Dad won’t let me take my computer.”
“I bought you a new laptop this afternoon,” I said. “It’s sitting on the kitchen counter waiting for you. Walk out with your clothes, your school books, and Grandma’s wooden box if you can find it. Leave the rest.”
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang again.
The caller ID flashed *Arthur Vance*.
I pressed the speaker button. “Yes, Dad?”
His voice didn't sound booming anymore. It didn't have the heavy, condescending baritone of the man who had dismissed me at Thanksgiving. It sounded brittle, frayed, and ragged around the edges.
“Cassidy,” he wheezed. “You have to call your lawyer. You have to tell them it was a misunderstanding.”
“It wasn't a misunderstanding, Dad. You forged my signature on a federal loan instrument.”
“Dale was just trying to help us out!” Dad cried, his voice breaking into a desperate, furious whine. “The bank was going to deny the equity line! If we didn't get that cash, Brent was going to get sued by his business partners! I was trying to save your brother!”
“You sacrificed me to save a thirty-five-year-old man who refuses to work,” I replied, my words measured and lethal. “You used my name as collateral for your cowardice.”
“They’re going to indict me, Cassidy!” he yelled. “Do you understand that? The sheriff’s investigator told me Dale is already talking! Dale folded the second they threatened his notary license! If I go to jail, your mother will lose everything!”
“You already lost everything, Dad,” I said. “You lost it when you decided that sixty-eight thousand dollars of my labor was your personal slush fund. Don’t call this number again. Any further communication will come through Evelyn Miller.”
I ended the call.
May you like
I blocked his number.
Then I walked down the hall to the living room, where Simone was brewing fresh cinnamon tea, and helped her arrange the pillows on the pull-out sofa for my sister.
