— Sarah, get in the truck right now!
Behind him, someone leaned on their horn. People were in a hurry, heading home, seeing this drama as nothing more than a nuisance in their commute. Dave didn’t even look back. He stared at his daughter’s hollowed-out cheekbones, her cracked lips, and little Nathan in the carrier. His grandson’s head was lolling to the side, his face flushed from the humidity.
Sarah climbed into the back seat, clutching the baby to her chest, her fist still tight around a handful of loose change—someone’s casual handout. Dave rolled up the window, cutting off the city noise, cranked the AC to max, and pulled away.
— Where’s the house? — he asked, keeping his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. — Where’s your SUV? Where’s the money I wired you for the savings account?
Sarah stared out the tinted window. In the rearview mirror, Dave saw a single, heavy tear roll down her face. She looked like she didn’t even have the energy for a full breakdown.
— Andrew took it, — she finally choked out. — He and Linda. They took everything. The car, the house, the accounts. They kicked Nathan and me out. They told me if I fought them, they’d use their “connections” to take the baby through CPS.
— How? The deed was in your name…
— It was, — she swallowed hard. — Andrew’s brother, Vince, works at the title company. He brought over a stack of papers a week after I got home from the hospital. He told me it was just paperwork for the insurance and Nathan’s trust. I was so tired, Dad. I hadn’t slept in days, the baby was crying constantly… I didn’t read the fine print. I signed a quitclaim deed to Andrew. I didn’t even realize what I was doing.
Dave took a sharp turn onto a quiet side street, pulled over, and turned around to face her. Sarah was hunched over, shielding the baby, looking like she was waiting for a blow—not a physical one, but the “I told you so” that usually follows a disaster.
— How long has it been like this?
— Two weeks. We’ve been staying near the old bridge. A volunteer named Lisa told me it was the safest spot for women with kids.
— Two weeks… — Dave repeated. The weight of it hit him. Fourteen nights on the street. Fourteen days begging. His grandson, in a carrier, in the middle of a heatwave while the world drove by.
— Dad, I was afraid to come to you. Andrew said he had people watching your shop. He said if I went to you, he’d make sure you lost the business.
— Stop.
Dave reached back and covered her hand with his, feeling how thin her wrist had become.
— Stop crying. I know exactly how to handle your husband and that mother of his.
He dialed a number from memory—an old contact from his early days in the business, someone who knew how to keep things quiet. The phone picked up on the third ring.
— Gus. It’s Dave Miller. I need a room in the back building. Quiet. No questions.
On the other end, there was a knowing grunt.
— Dave, for you, I’ve got the suite. How far out are you?
— Forty minutes.
The Pineview Motel sat off the interstate, a relic of the seventies trying its best to look modern. Faded signage, plastic chairs on the walkway, and the smell of diesel and cheap coffee. Old Gus met them at the side entrance. He was a sturdy man in his seventies with the squint of someone who’d seen it all and a handshake that could crush gravel.
— Room 27, — he handed over a key with a heavy wooden fob. — It’s quiet, faces the courtyard. If you need anything, just knock.
— Gus, — Dave lowered his voice. — We aren’t here. You understand? Nobody checked in, nobody saw us.
The old man put a hand over his heart with mock solemnity.
— I’m a vault, Dave. You know me. Quiet as a grave.
Dave nodded and headed for the room, but Gus caught his elbow. The old man’s eyes twinkled.
— Reminds me of ’89. I had to hide a guy from… well, you remember. Hell of a story. He showed up at midnight, covered in—
— Gus! — Dave raised his hands in a plea.
— Right, right. Vault. Remember?
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