Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 284(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Well,” Mom says, striding into the living room, her eyes as wide as saucers from her pain pills. She had a fall last year, and even though her hip has healed, she says the pain is still there, always there. “What are you waiting for?”
“You know it’s not me who will suffer here,” Dad snaps. “I can disappear. Leave the city. Do whatever the hell I want. The sharks are going to come looking for you.”
Dad grabs his suitcase without looking at me again and almost runs for the door. Mom chases after him, screaming, calling him every name she can think of. I stand in the bathroom doorway the whole time, watching numbly. There are no more tears now. I’m retreating into myself, a secret room inside, with perfect acoustics and no pain, no doubt, just music.
Once he’s gone, Mom turns, falls against the door, slides to a sitting position, and starts sobbing. Maybe a good daughter would go to her, hold her, and tell her everything will be okay. However, since the pills started, my bond with Mom has begun to fray. It’s even more depressing than with Dad. At least he and I never had much of a relationship to begin with.
I go into my bedroom, shut the door, sit on my bed, and stare at the wall.
At first, I think I’m dreaming. The bang-bang-bang seems like it comes from inside me. I peel my eyes open and focus. It’s coming from the front door. This is another familiar routine. Dad leaves, vowing never to return, and then he comes stumbling back. Mom’s probably too dosed-up to answer the door. I have a double shift at the restaurant tomorrow, so I need my sleep.
Groggily, I drag myself through the apartment and open the door. “Dad, it’s late.”
A cold hand clamps over my mouth, sending an icy shiver through me. The man is wearing a balaclava, eyes narrowed as he shoves me against the wall.
“Don’t make a noise,” he says.
I was about to scream, so I bite down. My heart’s banging in my chest so hard that it hurts.
“Your father owes us money, Scarlet. Where is he?”
I shake my head, made difficult by the fact he’s holding my mouth, his grip crushing my jaws like he’s trying to twist my head off.
“You don’t know?”
I nod, wondering if I should try to remember any details about him. Green eyes, his accent indistinguishable from anybody born in the rougher parts of the city.
“That’s not good for you,” the man says, “but I believe that family is the most important thing in life. Don’t you?”
I nod again, but only because it’s what he wants me to do. So far, he hasn’t produced a weapon. He hasn’t tried to do anything to my hands—hold them in place, handcuff them, anything. I’m under no delusions about my ability to fight. I just need to let him get his speech over with, but what if he turns violent?
“That means this debt belongs to your entire family,” the man says. “I’m a generous man. I’ll give you three days. Do you have any questions?”
I nod a third time.
He slightly loosens his grip on my mouth. I can taste the leather of his glove. It makes me sick. “Don’t scream, Scarlet Smith. Don’t do anything stupid.”
It’s not hard to guess why he’s used my full name. He wants me to understand that he knows everything about me. About Mom. About Dad.
“How much?” I say, trying so hard to keep my voice steady.
“Thirty-two thousand,” he replies, “but it’ll be thirty-five tomorrow and thirty-eight the day after that. Tell you what. We can call it an even forty in three days. Unless you have thirty-two right now?”
“N-no,” I whisper.
He turns and looks into the apartment. From the way the balaclava shifts, I think he’s smirking. “I didn’t think so. Don’t worry about finding us for the payment. We’ll come to you.”
He lets me go and backs off into the hallway. Another detail is that he’s not very tall. Just a couple of inches taller than me. I’m five-five. So he’s around five-seven. Why does that matter, though? It’s not like I can go to the police. He doesn’t even need to say that part. Dad has borrowed from bad people before. Never this bad, but still. No police.
It’s like the man reads my mind. From the hallway, he says, “Call 911 if you want, Scarlet. I’d enjoy that.”
He walks down the hallway. Once he’s gone, I stumble against the wall, shaking all over. All I want to do is cry and scream that life’s not fair. There’s only so much I can take, but now the debt’s on my head and Mom’s.
I remember a few years ago, before the most recent move, Mom and me in the kitchen, Mom kneading dough, singing a few notes, then looking over at me with a daring, alert glint in her eyes—the kind of glint she never has anymore. “Go on, Scarlet. I know you can do better than me…”