Chapter 3 - The Wolves at the Door
Seventy-two hours after my surgery, I was discharged.
I didn't need crutches anymore; Dr. Harrison had fitted me with an advanced carbon-fiber hinged brace that allowed controlled mobility. I could walk. Every step had a dull, throbbing ache that reminded me of combat conditioning, but it was solid. The joint held. My bone hadn't been compromised.
I had already checked out of my old apartment in Oceanside. Marcus had arranged a temporary lease on a high-security penthouse condominium in downtown San Diego, overlooking the bay. No one had the address except Marcus, Dr. Harrison, and Jake.
Jake, however, was still staying at his cramped, run-down studio apartment near the shipyards while we prepared the new shop. And that was where the wolves decided to gather.
It was Tuesday evening when Jake called me.
"Emily," he whispered, his voice trembling through the receiver. "They're here."
I paused, setting down the mug of green tea I was holding. "Who's there, Jake?"
"Mom and Madison. They’re pounding on my door. They've been out in the hallway for twenty minutes. Madison is screaming, and the landlord came out and threatened to call the police."
"Did you open the door?"
"No," he said quickly. "I locked the deadbolt like you told me. But... Em, Mom sounds crazy. She’s crying through the crack. She says they don't have anywhere to sleep. She says the feds locked them out of the house in Newport Beach."
"Put your phone in your pocket, keep the line open, and don't touch that lock," I ordered, my military instincts taking over instantly. "I'm ten minutes away."
I grabbed my jacket, strapped my brace tight, and took the elevator straight down to the parking garage where my new, nondescript black SUV was parked.
Ten minutes later, I walked through the grimy, carpeted hallway of Jake’s second-floor apartment complex.
The scene was pathetic.
Victoria Vance, a woman who wouldn't be caught dead in anything less than St. John knitwear and Italian leather heels, was sitting on a stained floral suitcase in the hallway. Her makeup was smeared across her hollow cheeks, her once-immaculate platinum hair was matted into a greasy knot, and she was wearing a mismatched trench coat over sweatpants.
Beside her, Madison was kicking the bottom of Jake’s plywood apartment door with a scuffed designer boot.
"Open the damn door, Jake!" Madison screamed, her voice echoing down the stairwell. "We know you're in there! Open up! I need to charge my phone, and Mom needs her blood pressure medication! Open this door right now!"
"He's not opening that door, Madison," I said, my voice flat, cold, and echoing from behind them.
Both of them whipped around.
For a second, Madison looked like she’d seen a ghost. Her eyes traveled from my face, down to my legs, taking in the fact that I was standing upright on both feet without crutches, dressed in a sharp black wool trench coat and clean leather boots.
"Emily?" Madison gasped. Then, the realization hit her, and her face contorted into pure venom. "You! Where have you been?! Do you have any idea what has happened to this family?!"
Victoria stumbled to her feet, dropping her designer handbag onto the dirty carpet, and reached out her trembling, ringless hands toward me. The feds had already seized her three-carat diamond.
"Emily! Oh, thank God, Emily!" Victoria cried, lunging toward me as if she were going to wrap me in a motherly embrace. "Your father... they took him, Emily! They locked him up in the Metropolitan Detention Center! They won't set bail until Thursday, and the lawyer says we need three hundred thousand dollars cash for a bond! They froze our cards! They won't even let us back into the house to get my furs!"
I took one deliberate step back, letting Victoria’s hands grasp empty air.
She froze, blinking at me through red, swollen eyes. "Emily? What's the matter with you? Didn't you hear me? Your father is in jail!"
"I heard you," I said.
Madison stepped up beside our mother, crossing her arms defensively. "Emily, stop acting like a psycho. We need your military credit union account. You have savings from your deployment, right? Mom needs a hotel room at the Ritz, and we need to hire a private defense attorney. The public defender Dad got looks like he’s twenty-two years old."
I looked Madison up and down. No champagne glass. No yacht. Just a spoiled, desperate twenty-three-year-old girl who had never worked an honest day in her entire life.
"My military credit union account has twelve hundred dollars in it," I lied effortlessly.
"Then take out a loan!" Madison snapped. "You're active duty—or veteran, whatever! They give you guys personal loans! Go to the bank and get fifty grand! We'll pay you back as soon as Dad’s accounts are unlocked!"
"Dad’s accounts will never be unlocked, Madison," I said, speaking slowly as if explaining something to a toddler. "Richard ran an eighty-million-dollar Ponzi scheme. He spent investors' retirement funds to buy you a Sea Ray and buy Victoria a Mercedes every two years. He's looking at twenty-five years in federal prison."
Victoria gasped, pressing her hands to her chest. "How dare you speak about your father like that! He gave you everything! He raised you!"
"He hung up on me when I told him I needed five thousand dollars to save my leg from permanent disability," I said, stepping closer to her, towering over her in my boots. "He popped champagne while Madison told me to take Advil and stop ruining the vibe of her party."
Madison flinched, color rushing into her pale cheeks. "I was joking, Emily! You always take everything so personally! It was a party! How was I supposed to know your knee was actually hurt?"
"Because I told you it was," I said. "And you didn't care. Neither of you cared."
"We were celebrating Madison's achievement!" Victoria shrieked, her voice cracking. "She had just signed an influencer contract! We were going to help you later, Emily! We were always going to help you!"
"Jake helped me," I said, pointing toward the closed apartment door. "Jake sold Grandpa's Snap-on tools—the only inheritance he had—to give me eight hundred dollars for surgery. Where were you?"
"Grandpa's tools were junk!" Victoria yelled, waving her hands dismissively. "Old iron in a rusted toolbox! This is real life, Emily! This is our family's reputation! If we don't bail your father out, we will be ruined in Newport! Nobody will talk to us!"
"You're already ruined, Victoria," I said.
"Don't call me Victoria! I am your mother!"
"A mother doesn't leave her daughter to become crippled so her other child can drink champagne on stolen fiberglass," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous, low rumble. "You have sixty seconds to pick up your bags and get out of this hallway before I have building security and the local precinct drag you out for trespassing."
"You wouldn't dare!" Madison screamed. "We're your family!"
"Try me," I whispered.
The door behind them clicked open. Jake stepped out, standing beside me. He didn't look down. He didn't look afraid. He looked at our mother, then at our sister, and shook his head.
"Go away, Mom," Jake said, his voice quiet, steady, and final. "We don't have anything for you. And even if we did, we wouldn't give you a single cent."
Victoria stared at both of us, realization finally piercing through her narcissistic haze. She saw two children she had broken, used, and discarded, now standing side by side like stone pillars.
"You ungrateful little bastards," Victoria hissed, the venom completely stripping away whatever fake motherly veneer she had left. "You'll rot in hell for this. Both of you."
May you like
"Maybe," I said. "But we'll do it on two good legs."
***
