“Wait, suits?”
Hand on the handle, I twist as his gaze flicks toward the cigar in the ashtray, and he mutters almost incoherently. “Now? I-it wasn’t supposed to be this soon.”
“What wasn’t supposed?—”
A shattering noise cracks, and the door splinters around the doorjamb. I shriek and retreat as the three men plow through.
“Hey! Get out!” I scream. Turning, I seek Phil, who’s rubbing his temples, yet seemingly not as desperate to call the police as I am. My mind conjures worst-case scenarios like flashcards from my lit class. Armed robbers, debt collectors, maybe some jealous husband—all fit for an Edgar Allan Poe nightmare.Why is he not calling the cops?
One of the men snaps a hand out and gathers my hair around his fist. With a tug, he pulls me back and into himself. My legs cross, my body twisting like a pretzel as I struggle and fall against the bulky man.
“D-don’t hurt her. He said he wouldn’t hurt her.”
His words register along with the slippery voice that leaks in past the threshold. Another man, older and dressed more pristinely than the others, snakes his way through the door. He makes a show of gently closing it until the broken wood taps shut.
“I did say that, didn’t I?”
My eyes dart between the two men as the grip on my hair tightens, and I slump to the floor. They’re opposites, yet probably around the same age. One wears his years in clean lines, polished shoes, and privileged wealth. Phil wears his like the night’s pitcher of beer, wrinkled shirt and eyes with too little sleep.
The man’s words are smooth but cut through with an undercurrent of menace.I did say that, didn’t I?I replay those words, trying to sort out my confusion that’s spiraling out of control.
Do I know this man? Have I seen him before? His black hair is streaked with gray; his features are sharp and expressive. The man oozes elitism.
My father straightens the best he can and shuffles forward, extending a shaky hand. “Senator Graves.”
Senator?
The senator ignores my father’s handshake and dips a hand into his suit jacket while he scans the room. “And here I thought fifty thousand would go a lot further for you, Mr. Harmon.”
My father stumbles forward, muttering. His eyes dart to me often enough for a creeping chill to slither across the base of my neck. “I, uh, well, I was going to do some things. Fix the swing on the porch.”
I stare wide-eyed as the senator brings a cigar from his jacket pocket to his mouth. He pinches it between his lips while searching his suit for something else. My focus narrows on the burgundy foil wrapped at the base. He pulls out a cutter, andafter extracting the roll from his mouth, he cuts a small portion off the top.
“I see.” He follows up by toasting the foot of the cigar and taking several short puffs. His eyes flick to me and dip down my body. “The photos you showed us don’t do her justice. Her beauty is … unmatched.”
My insides free-fall like an elevator with cut cables. Photos? What photos?
“It’s from her mother,” my father snarls. Then he looks away from me, like the very sight of me triggers him.
“My daughter looks like her mother, too. Thankfully, she didn’t get her worst traits.” He cackles at himself, taking several puffs of his cigar.
I glance around, trying to piece together the snippets of information I’ve gathered. Fifty thousand dollars? “I don’t understand,” I rasp. “You tookfifty thousandfrom them? Why?”
Senator Graves tsks. “Look at this place. It’s a hovel at best.Fifty thousand is a fair price for a woman of unmatched beauty, don’t you think? Mr. Harmon is unemployed and motivated to sell, so he can live his best life at the bottom of the bottle. Am I right, Phil?” He doubles down on his sneer on his face, his words dripping with sarcasm.
Hovel. Like this home my mother poured into is a sad little shack full of regret. Phil is on every kind of assistance there is. There’s no world in which he can pay back that kind of money. Motivated to sell. Those were his words.
“Sell what?” I ask, finding it impossible to keep my voice from quivering.
Phil looks away from me while the senator grins, nodding toward the men.
“You.” His mouth moves, the hand holding his cigar gesturing toward me, and his gaze sharpens, hungry in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Your father drank across half ofChicago,” he says. “And every time he did, he talked. About you. Likeyouwere already for sale.”
It takes me a minute to process that word.
You.
That one word. One syllable. It claws through me, cutting through each thread of denial I’ve been holding on to. I wanted to believe it was a debt gone wrong—that my father’s a broken man, not a monster—but the truth stares back at me in the hollow of his eyes. There’s no panic or regret. Just shame—and even that feels rehearsed.
