Chapter 5 - The Glass Shatters
By eleven in the morning, Grant Mercer was sitting in a booth at a greasy-spoon diner three blocks from Wacker Drive.
His corporate credit card had been declined when he tried to buy coffee at the Starbucks in the lobby. His company iPhone had been remotely wiped at nine-thirty; the screen was currently displaying a black background with a flashing white icon directing him to return the device to Vance-Sterling IT.
He was using a fifteen-dollar prepaid phone he had bought at a convenience store with the twenty-dollar bill he found in his overcoat pocket.
His hands were shaking so violently that he could barely punch the numbers.
When Marian finally answered, the sound of sirens and shouting nearly blew out the cheap speaker.
"Grant! Grant, where are you?!" Marian was screaming, her voice shrill with hysteria. "They're throwing us into the street! The police are here! They have dogs, Grant! They're drilling out the locks!"
Grant pressed the phone to his ear, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. "Mom? What are you talking about? Who's drilling the locks?"
"The police! That vile, disgusting woman had a court order! They brought a cattle wagon for Vanessa! They threw her bags onto the sidewalk in the snow! Paige is crying, my blood pressure is two hundred, and they won't even let me take my fur coat from the closet!"
"The house is mine," Grant said, his voice sounding hollow, like a man speaking from the bottom of a well. "I lived there for four years. She can't just... Illinois is an equitable distribution state!"
"They said your name isn't on the paper!" Marian wailed. "They said it's a trust! Grant, do something! Call your friends at City Hall! Call the Mayor's office!"
"Mom... I don't have City Hall," Grant whispered. The diner waitress set a mug of black coffee in front of him, looking at his rumpled two-thousand-dollar suit and wild eyes with deep suspicion. "The board fired me."
There was a silence on the other end of the line so complete that Grant thought the call had dropped.
"What did you say?" Marian’s voice was suddenly small, stripped of all its regal pretension.
"Vance-Sterling bought our debt," Grant choked out. "Evelyn... Evelyn is the regional director. She has the forensic audit. She knows about the money from the Gary terminal. Mom, they’re sending it to the State's Attorney. They’re going to indict me."
A loud, discordant crash came through the receiver, followed by Vanessa’s voice shrieking obscenities in the background.
*“You told me he was a partner!”* Vanessa was screaming at Paige. *“You told me he owned the whole logistics group! You told me he had eight million in private trusts! I broke my back in his car, and he doesn’t have a dime?!”*
"Vanessa, lower your voice!" Paige shouted back. "You're making a scene in front of the neighbors!"
*“Get your hands off me, you tacky little thief!”* Vanessa shrieked. *“Where is my settlement? Where is the insurance money?!”*
The call went dead.
Grant sat in the booth, staring into the dark, oily surface of his coffee.
His entire adult life had been a series of mirrors, carefully positioned to reflect an image of effortless dominance. He had driven the right cars, worn the right watches, belonged to the right golf clubs, and treated people—especially Evelyn—with the casual cruelty of someone who believed he was born into the aristocracy.
He had believed he was the master of the house because he sat at the head of the table.
He had never realized that Evelyn was the one who bought the table, paid the mortgage on the room it stood in, and quietly financed the company that paid his executive salary.
He pulled the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket—the termination memo. At the bottom, beneath the cold, legalistic signatures, was a handwritten line in Evelyn's elegant, sloping script:
May you like
*Palmer House. Room 1204. Twelve o'clock. If you want to avoid immediate arrest, do not be late.*
***
