“You’re hysterical. There isn’t the remotest possibility that will happen.”
“Oh, really? Think back to the Great Recession. How many banks were involved in shady activities then? Practically every single one. How much profit do you think a bank can make if a small loan of fifty thousand dollars can gain them someone’s house through foreclosure or asset forfeiture? How much do you think they can turn that house around for? Or make through knocking it down and redeveloping it?”
She starts to lower the knife. In her head, I see gears turn and a look of worry settle over her features. She’s not so determined anymore. Not so certain that she made the right move about her son.
There’s a fire inside me, fueled by rage at this woman and frustration that the one man I felt safe enough to open up to — as stubborn, as criminal, as wrong-headed as he can be — has been taken from me, permanently, by his own mother. Blaze and I have many differences, and he can piss me off like few things can, but I still care for him.
I keep advancing.
And talking.
“How much money do you think it would cost them to hire people to intimidate someone? Or kill them? How much money do you think it would take for them to buy a few police officers? Do you think, added all together, it would even put a dent in their profits if they were making hundreds of thousands from shady real estate deals?”
She sets the knife down on the counter.
“What should we do?”
It’s too late to undo the phone call, but maybe it’s not too late to warn Blaze.
“Call your son. Warn him. And tell me where your car keys are.”
“My keys? Why?”
“Because if they’re going to arrest your son, maybe I can bail him out before he gets hurt. Or at least make enough of a scene that they think twice before they try to hurt him. I’m sure they don’t want witnesses or any word of what they’re doing getting out. Now — your keys — tell me where they are.”
“They’re in my purse. It’s on the little table by the front door.”
I don’t wait for her to finish speaking. I turn and head to her purse. Moments later, I have the keys to the Volvo in my hand and my mind is already racing ahead to my next step: do I head to Anna’s house and make a scene there, or should I head right for the police station?
I don’t have time to answer my question; there’s a thud at the front door.
And that thud is followed by another, heavier thud. A thud that splits wood and sends the door flying in on its hinges. A thud that makes me scream.
Four men — big men, with tattoos on their arms, scowls on their faces, and arms so thick they make the sleeves of their t-shirts scream for mercy — charge inside.
I turn and run deeper into the house.
From the kitchen, I hear Eleanor shout. “Tiffany, who is it? What’s wrong?”
One of them growls after me. “Don’t make a scene. Don’t make noise. And maybe this will hurt a little less.”
His words chase me into the house and up the stairs. My feet hammer the steps of the staircase I run for my life.
Below, Eleanor screams.
Then one shouts a warning to the others. “The bitch has a knife.”
The door to Blaze’s room slams behind me, and I topple a bookcase to barricade the door. It thuds, the wood groaning as one of the men hammers in rage against the old door.
Heart pounding, ears filled with the threats from the men outside and the sound of distraught timbers cracking under the blows of their rage, I glance around the room.
There’s only one way out: his window.
No time to think.
I throw it open. Two stories high. Looking down on the unkempt back yard and the wooden deck below.
Behind me, timber crunches. Cracks. The bookcase groans and slides across the carpet as the door is forced open.
I act.
I jump.
“You dumb bitch.”
The words follow me on my descent, hitting me just as I crash to the ground.
I cry out as I land on my wounded foot and feel tendons and bones beg for mercy. Wind leaves my lungs in a whoosh and my head swims in pain.
There’s no time. I can only act. I have to keep going.
Sparing a glance through one window — and seeing the disturbing sight of a slumped-over Eleanor being dragged across the floor by one of the musclebound goons — I force my wounded legs to run, taking me around the house and to the driveway before any of the other men know what’s happening.
The keys to the Volvo are in my hand before I reach the car, and I throw the door open and shove them into the ignition. It starts and I barely have time to shift the car into reverse and slam my screaming foot onto the gas and peel out of the driveway before two of the men come charging out of the house.
Their faces fade in my rear view mirror as the rumbling Volvo lumbers down the road and then it hits me that I am truly alone, with no one to turn to, while the damnable, wrong-headed, big-hearted man I care about is in mortal danger.
What am I going to do?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Blaze
‘Soon’ doesn’t come fast enough.
I know that when Anna gets here, I’m in for a world of pain, but that bitch takes her sweet time and leaves me fuming in the worst kind of suspense. I spend the fifteen minutes — at least — between
