Chapter 2 - The Shark at the Door
The burner phone kept buzzing, a harsh, metallic drone against the silence of the utility room.
Sadi wiped her raw hands on her gray apron, her fingers trembling so badly she dropped the phone once before catching it against her thigh. She pressed the green button and held the cheap plastic device to her ear.
“Sadi, darling,” Mick O’Shea’s voice oozed through the speaker, thick with the oily charm of a man who enjoyed watching things squirm. “You’re up late. Working hard for the man, I see.”
“Mick,” Sadi whispered, pressing her back against the damp brick wall of the basement. “I told you. Friday. I get my cash envelope on Friday. I’ll have the interest payment ready.”
“Friday’s a long time away, Sadi-girl,” Mick replied, his tone shifting imperceptibly, losing the fake warmth and dropping into something flat, hard, and terrifying. “And you’re behind. Twenty thousand dollars behind on the principal rollover.”
“I’m trying! I’m working two jobs—!”
“I know you are,” Mick interrupted softly. Then his voice turned almost pleasant, like a neighbor discussing the weather. “In fact, I’m looking at St. Jude’s right now.”
Sadi stopped breathing. The utility room seemed to spin on its axis, the gray walls tilting sideways as the blood rushed out of her head.
“What... what did you say?” she choked out, her voice barely a thread of sound.
“I said I’m standing right outside the oncology wing on the fourth floor,” Mick purred. “The security guard at the front desk was eating a jelly donut and didn't even look up when I walked past. Your brother’s room is 412. He looks so peaceful right now, Sadi. All those little plastic tubes connected to his arms, breathing for him, keeping him tethered to this miserable world.”
“No,” Sadi sobbed, sliding a few inches down the brick wall. “No, Mick, please. Leave him alone. He’s just a kid! He didn't do anything to you!”
“He didn't, did he?” Mick agreed smoothly. “But you did, Sadi. You signed the paper. You took the cash. And debts have to be paid. One way or another.”
“Please,” she wept openly now, her hands clutching at her chest as if she could physically hold her heart inside her ribs. “Stay away from Sam. Don't touch him.”
“You have one hour,” Mick said, the line crackling with static. “Send twenty thousand dollars to the account I texted you, or one of those machines keeping your little brother alive is going to experience a very unfortunate malfunction. Tick-tock, Sadi.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The line went dead.
Sadi stared at the cracked plastic screen of the burner phone, her vision blurring with hot, furious tears. Her knees gave completely out. The strength vanished from her bones, and she slid all the way down the damp wall until she was huddled in a miserable, shaking heap on the concrete floor just outside the heavy double doors of Victor Costello’s private office.
She tried to smother her sobs, stuffing her bleeding, chemical-burned hands directly into her mouth to choke back the animal wail tearing its way out of her chest.
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God, please, she prayed to a ceiling that had never answered her. Help me. Somebody, please help us.
Inside the private office, the deep, rhythmic murmur of Victor Costello’s voice abruptly stopped speaking.
