Chapter 5 - The Midnight Call
Monday passed with the agonizing crawl of a pending trial.
I worked from my home office, my eyes repeatedly drifting toward the window that overlooked our quiet suburban street. Wes called twice—once at eleven to confirm that LendingClub had formally suspended the account pending our affidavit, and again at three to tell me he had pulled the public records on Tate’s rental on Sycamore.
"Tate was served an eviction notice three weeks ago, Olly," Wes told me over the line, the clicking of his computer keys audible in the background. "Non-payment of rent for July and August. The hearing is scheduled for next Thursday."
I leaned back in my desk chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "So the signature loan didn't even cover it all."
"He spent it," Wes said bluntly. "He blew through twenty-two grand in under ten months. If he loses that truck, he has zero assets left. Be ready for him to do something desperate."
By five o'clock, the sun was casting long, amber shadows across the driveway. Five-thirty came. Five-forty-five.
At five-fifty, a vehicle turned onto our street.
I stood by the front window. It wasn't Tate’s silver F-150. It was my father’s faded navy blue Buick LeSabre.
The car pulled into the driveway and stopped. Dad got out alone. He walked heavily, his shoulders hunched against an invisible wind, carrying a large manila envelope in his right hand.
I met him on the front porch.
Dad climbed the three steps, stopped, and held out the envelope. "Tate signed the confession of judgment in front of a notary at the credit union at two o'clock."
I took the envelope, checking the seal. "Where's the truck, Dad?"
Dad didn't meet my eyes. He looked out over my manicured lawn, his jaw working silently before he spoke.
"He drove it across the state line this morning, Oliver."
A spike of ice hit my stomach. "What do you mean he drove it across the state line?"
"He left at dawn," Dad said, his voice flat, drained of any remaining pride. "He took Jolene and Emma and packed whatever could fit in the bed of that truck. He told your mother he was going to South Carolina—somewhere outside Rock Hill, staying with Jolene's cousin. He said he wasn't going to let you take his livelihood."
I stared at my father. "He took a vehicle with a lien held by a bank where my name is the primary co-signer, across state borders, after being served with an eviction notice."
"He thinks if you don't know where it is, you can't sell it," Dad whispered. "Your mother gave him five hundred dollars for gas. I tried to stop her, Olly. I swear to God I tried. But she was screaming that he was going to end up on the street with Emma."
I stood on my porch, holding the notarized confession in my hands, looking at the broken old man who had spent four decades enabling a runaway train.
"Dad," I said quietly.
"I know," Dad choked out. A single tear tracked down the deep groove beside his nose. "I know what you have to do."
He didn't ask me for mercy. He didn't ask me to wait. He turned around, climbed back into his Buick, and backed down the driveway, leaving me standing in the evening heat.
I walked back inside, shut the door, and locked the deadbolt. Laurel was standing at the end of the hallway, holding Margot’s hand. She had heard every word through the open window.
"Is he gone?" she asked.
"He ran," I said.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Sarah Lin’s direct line. She picked up on the second ring.
"Sarah," I said, my voice steady, clear, and cold as iron. "He skipped town with the collateral. File the criminal complaint. Notify the lender’s repo division that the vehicle has been taken across state lines to avoid recovery. And call the Charlotte-Mecklenburg police. I want the warrant issued by morning."
"Understood, Oliver," Sarah replied crisply. "Consider it done."
I hung up the phone and set it on the counter.
Across the room, Beckett was sitting at the kitchen table with a box of crayons, carefully coloring the horn of a triceratops bright, blazing gold. He looked up, caught my eye, and smiled.
"Look, Daddy," he said, holding up the drawing. "He's guarding the nest."
May you like
"He sure is, bud," I said, walking over to pull out a chair beside him. "He sure is."
My phone buzzed on the counter behind me. A new number, South Carolina area code. I didn't reach for it. Whatever storm was coming from across the state line, it had met its wall.
