Chapter 4 - The Midnight EvacuationAt exactly eleven o'clock, the private elevator chime echoed through the penthouse foyer.
Linda and Rachel marched out of the hallway, dragging three overloaded suitcases, a laundry basket overflowing with mismatched shoes, and a designer tote bag stuffed with items they had clearly scavenged from my guest bathroom. Linda looked like a disgraced general retreating from a lost war, her face twisted into a mask of bitter, burning hatred.
She stopped right in front of me, her chest heaving.
“You’re a lonely, miserable creature, Elena,” Linda spat, her voice shaking with malice. “You think your money makes you superior, but you’ll die alone in this cold, empty box with nobody to hold your hand. My son deserves twenty times the woman you’ll ever be.”
“Then take him with you,” I replied instantly, gesturing toward Mark, who was standing miserably by the kitchen island with his head bowed.
Linda glared at me, then turned to her son. “Mark, grab your bags. You’re coming with us.”
Mark looked up, horror flashing across his face. He looked at his mother, then at me, trapped in the crosshairs of his own cowardice. “Mom, I... I can't just leave tonight. My car is here, my clothes...”
“I said come!” Linda barked, grabbing the handle of her suitcase and marching toward the elevator doors.
Rachel followed close behind, casting one final, venomous glare in my direction before pressing the down button. The elevator doors slid open, swallowing them into the mechanical shaft.
Mark stood in the middle of the foyer for a long, agonizing moment. He looked as though he wanted to say something—an apology, a plea, a threat—but the look in my eyes stopped him cold. He turned around without a word, grabbed his lightweight windbreaker from the coat rack, and hurried into the elevator before the doors closed.
I stood in the center of my penthouse, listening to the muffled hum of the elevator descending thirty floors to the lobby.
Then, the silence returned.
It wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of the past six months, filled with ticking time bombs and suppressed rage. It was a pristine, beautiful, unadulterated quiet.
Bruno trotted out from the hallway, his tail giving a slow, happy thump against the hardwood floor. He walked over to his metal bowl, looked down, and then looked up at me with expectant brown eyes.
“Hey, buddy,” I whispered, walking over and kneeling beside him. I reached out and gently patted his golden head. “Let’s get you some real food.”
I picked up the contaminated metal bowl, tossed the ruined chicken and kibble into the trash, washed the bowl thoroughly with hot soapy water, and filled it to the brim with fresh, high-grade salmon kibble. Bruno dug in immediately, his tail wagging furiously.
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I stood up, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline of downtown Chicago, and took my first deep, uninhibited breath in half a year.
The obligations were over. Now, the real accounting was about to begin.
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