Chapter 5 - THE VALLEY OF THE FALLEN
The neon sign of the Sunset View Motel flickered with a rhythmic, buzzing groan that matched the pounding in Andrew Sterling’s temples.
The room smelled of damp carpet, industrial bleach, and cheap instant coffee left too long on a hot plate. A thin strip of yellow light cut through the cracked vinyl blinds, casting a jaundiced stripe across the double bed where Andrew lay staring up at the water-stained popcorn ceiling.
His custom-tailored Brioni suits—the ones that used to hang in a climate-controlled walk-in closet in Bel-Air—were now crammed into two plastic dry-cleaning bags leaning against the faux-wood dresser. His Rolex, a limited-edition platinum piece given to him by a real estate partner during happier times, was gone, traded three days ago to a pawnshop on Ventura Boulevard for fifteen hundred dollars in cash to cover the back rent on this depressing room.
The phone on the nightstand buzzed.
Andrew didn’t move for a long moment. Then, with a heavy, leaden sigh, he reached out and swiped the screen.
“Mr. Sterling?” a sharp, nasal voice barked through the speaker. It was Mr. Henderson, the former branch manager of First California Bank—the same man who used to bow and offer him espresso whenever Andrew walked into the executive suite. “I’m calling regarding the defaulted equipment leases on your commercial vehicles. The repossession team is at the impound lot, and there’s still a seventy-thousand-dollar deficiency balance. If that’s not wired by five o’clock today, we’re forwarding the file to the district attorney’s office for asset concealment.”
“Henderson, listen to me,” Andrew croaked, his voice cracking from hours of dry coughing and panic. “Give me forty-eight hours. I have a meeting with an investor from Century City—he’s looking at buying my remaining consultancy shares—”
“Your consultancy shares were revoked by Escalante Capital yesterday, Mr. Sterling,” Henderson interrupted coldly. “You don’t own a desk, a chair, or a paperclip in this county anymore. Don’t call this number again.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Andrew threw the phone across the room. It smashed against the cheap drywall and clattered onto the threadbare carpet. He buried his face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaking as a dry, choked sob ripped through his throat.
Where was Brenda?
Gone. Two days after they had been evicted from the Bel-Air mansion, she had taken an Uber to West Hollywood with her designer handbags—the few that hadn't been seized by the bailiffs—and hadn't answered a single text since.
Where was his mother?
Sitting in a cramped assisted living facility in Pasadena, paid for by the mercy of a distant cousin who made her sleep in a shared room and listen to an elderly woman snore through the night. Eleanor Sterling had spent her first three days there in a state of catatonic shock, refusing to eat the hospital-grade gelatin, whispering the name Marianne over and over like an incantation of doom.
And Marianne.
The name echoed in Andrew’s brain like a hammer hitting an anvil.
The quiet girl who wore a simple brown leather bag. The wife he had slapped in front of his mistress. The woman he had ordered to get on her knees and get out of his house.
May you like
He had thought she was a beggar. He had treated her like dirt beneath his Italian leather shoes.
And she had owned the ground beneath his feet all along.
