Chapter 7 - The Evaporation of Marian Mercer
By three o'clock that afternoon, the sidewalk outside the Cleveland Avenue brownstone looked like a municipal salvage yard.
Six large plastic storage totes sat in the slush, containing Marian’s floral dresses, Paige’s shoe collection, and an assortment of half-empty perfume bottles. The winter wind was whipping off Lake Michigan, gusting at thirty miles an hour, driving stinging needles of sleet into Marian’s face.
She was huddled in the doorway of a neighboring brownstone whose owners had already called private security to have her removed from their steps.
Paige was sitting on one of the totes, sobbing hysterically into her phone as friend after friend declined to let them stay in their guest rooms.
"What do you mean your mother is visiting?!" Paige screamed into the receiver. "Chloe, it’s fifteen degrees outside! We have nowhere to go! My brother is—"
The call was disconnected. Paige threw the phone against the brick wall; the screen shattered into a spiderweb of green light.
A yellow taxi pulled up to the curb, splashing muddy water over Marian’s designer boots.
Grant stepped out.
He had no overcoat. He had left it in the diner when his card was declined and he had been forced to run out before the manager called the police. His suit jacket was soaked through, clinging to his shivering frame.
"Grant!" Marian cried out, stumbling down the steps toward him. "Thank God! Where is the car? Did you get the injunction? Where are we sleeping tonight?"
Grant stopped on the sidewalk. He looked at his mother.
For thirty-two years, this woman had whispered in his ear that he was a prince. She had told him that he was better than his cousins, that he was smarter than his teachers, and that the women he dated were never quite worthy of the Mercer name. She had encouraged him to look down on Evelyn, to mock her quiet family, to belittle her career, and to assert his dominance as the "man of the house."
"There is no car, Mom," Grant said. His teeth were chattering so violently he could barely form the words.
"What do you mean there is no car?!" Paige shrieked, jumping up from the tote. "Where is the BMW? Where is the Audi?"
"The BMW was impounded by the insurance company," Grant said. His voice was completely dead, devoid of inflection. "The Audi belongs to Evelyn. She took it."
"Then call an Uber Black!" Marian demanded, her voice rising in that imperious register that had once terrified junior associates at Mercer Logistics. "Take us to the Drake! We will get three suites and sort this out in the morning with the family lawyers!"
"We have no lawyers, Mom," Grant said. He began to laugh—a thin, reedy, terrifying sound that made Marian take a step back. "We have no money. Robert called an emergency shareholder meeting at one o'clock. They voted to dissolve Mercer Logistics and sell the core freight routes to Vance-Sterling for one dollar in exchange for Vance-Sterling assuming the pension liabilities."
"One dollar?!" Marian shrieked, clutching her throat. "The company your father built?!"
"The company my father built was bankrupt two years ago, Mom!" Grant screamed, stepping into her face. The sleet was freezing on his eyelashes. "I kept it alive by stealing! And the woman who was helping me steal was sitting in my living room laughing at you while you fed her Earl Grey tea!"
Paige stared at him, her mascara running down her cheeks in black streaks. "What about Vanessa? Where is she?"
"Vanessa is in Cook County Jail," Grant spat. "She was never paralyzed, Paige. She was walking forty-eight hours ago. She played us. She played all of us."
Marian swayed on her feet, her hand reaching out for the wrought-iron fence to support herself. Her face was gray, the loose skin beneath her jaw trembling like paper.
"My pension..." she whispered. "My quarterly dividend from the family trust..."
"Gone," Grant said. "The trust was pledged as secondary collateral for the Gary terminal facility. Arthur Vance called the note at noon. You have your social security, Mom. Seven hundred dollars a month."
A Cook County Sheriff’s van pulled up to the curb behind the taxi.
Deputy Miller stepped out, holding a clipboard.
"Grant Mercer?"
Grant turned slowly. He didn't run. He didn't argue. He held out his wrists, his shoulders slumping in total surrender.
"You're being taken in for questioning by the State's Attorney's Financial Crimes Division," Deputy Miller said, clicking the cold steel handcuffs around Grant’s wrists. "Step into the vehicle."
"Grant!" Marian screamed, lunging forward, but the second deputy intercepted her, pushing her firmly back toward the slush-covered sidewalk. "Grant! You can't leave us here! Who is going to pay for our hotel?!"
Grant didn't look back. As the deputy guided his head into the back of the patrol vehicle, he looked up at the fourth-floor windows of the Cleveland Avenue brownstone.
The lights were on.
Standing behind the restored historic glass, framed by the warm glow of the chandelier he had never paid for, was Evelyn.
May you like
She was holding a glass of sparkling water. She looked down at the street below, watched the police car pull away, and then turned back into the warmth of her home, disappearing from his view forever.
***
