Chapter 3 - THE PORSCHE
We ran outside.
Well, adults ran.
I ran in the way four-year-olds run when everyone else has longer legs.
David's silver Porsche shot from the alley.
One of Vincent's men jumped back.
Tires screamed.
“Move!”
The Porsche hit a trash bin and launched it across the pavement.
Mom pulled me behind her.
Vincent didn't move.
The car missed him by inches.
Then disappeared into Chicago traffic.
A black SUV immediately followed.
Vincent looked at his driver.
“Don't lose him.”
The SUV vanished.
Mom rounded on Vincent.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“No what?”
“No chasing him. No guns. No violence.”
Vincent tilted his head.
“You think I give all my employees guns?”
“I don't know what you give them.”
“Health insurance.”
I blinked.
Mom didn't.
“This isn't funny.”
“I wasn't joking.”
The revenue agents stepped outside carrying more boxes.
The older one approached Mom.
“We need a formal statement.”
“I'll give one.”
“Today.”
“Yes.”
Vincent spoke.
“She needs food first.”
Mom stared at him.
“I can answer for myself.”
“You haven't eaten.”
“How would you know?”
He pointed toward the restaurant.
“You've been working since six thirty. Your daughter mentioned hunger. You look dizzy.”
Mom's face hardened.
“Stop studying me.”
“Then stop swaying.”
She looked down.
Her hands were trembling.
Vincent turned toward one of his men.
“Marco. Food.”
Mom immediately said, “No.”
Marco stopped.
Vincent looked amused.
“You're refusing lunch?”
“I'm refusing debt.”
“Lunch isn't debt.”
“Everything is debt with people like you.”
The sentence landed hard.
Even the guards looked uncomfortable.
Vincent's face went still.
Then he nodded.
“Fair.”
For the first time, I saw my mother surprise him.
The revenue agent cleared his throat.
“Ms. Carter, there's more.”
He opened another folder.
“Someone used your Social Security number to create a second employee profile.”
Mom went silent.
“What?”
“Different address. Same identification.”
“How long?”
“Fourteen months.”
Vincent's expression darkened.
David had hired Mom fourteen months earlier.
The agent continued.
“The second profile received overtime payments, bonuses, and reimbursements.”
“I never got bonuses.”
“We know.”
“How much?”
The agent hesitated.
“Approximately thirty-eight thousand dollars.”
Mom sat down on the curb.
I climbed beside her.
She stared at the pavement.
“Thirty-eight thousand?”
Vincent crouched.
“Emily.”
She looked up.
“That could've paid our rent for two years.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
Her voice broke.
“You don't know what five thousand dollars means when your kid is eating cereal for dinner.”
Vincent didn't answer.
Mom wiped her eyes angrily.
“I sold my wedding ring.”
I had never heard that before.
Vincent's gaze shifted.
“Your husband?”
“Dead.”
His expression softened.
“I'm sorry.”
“Three years.”
She looked at me.
“Rory barely remembers him.”
“I remember his blue shirt.”
Mom smiled through tears.
“Yeah.”
I leaned against her.
“The one with the little boats.”
The revenue agent waited.
Then quietly said,
“There's something else.”
Mom almost laughed.
“Of course there is.”
“The forged payroll records weren't signed by David Sterling.”
Everyone looked at him.
Vincent stood.
“Then who?”
The agent checked his folder.
“Electronic authorization came from Sterling Holdings' chief financial officer.”
Mom frowned.
“Who is that?”
Before the agent could answer, Vincent's phone rang.
He picked up.
Listened.
His entire body went rigid.
“Where?”
Pause.
“Is he alive?”
Mom stood.
“What happened?”
Vincent ended the call.
“The Porsche crashed.”
“David?”
“He's alive.”
Vincent looked at Mom.
“But he wasn't alone.”
“Who was with him?”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“The woman whose bank account received your stolen wages.”
“David's wife?”
Vincent shook his head.
“No.”
He handed Mom the agent's payroll sheet.
At the bottom was a name.
CLAIRE STERLING — CHIEF FINANCIAL OFFICER
Mom stared at it.
Then whispered,
“Claire isn't David's wife.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Who is she?”
May you like
Mom's face turned gray.
“My sister.”
