Chapter 7 - The Debt Collectors
The splintering crash of oak echoed through the two-story house like a gunshot. Cold November air surged up the stairwell, carrying the smell of wet pavement, cigarette smoke, and imminent violence.
Marcus pressed his back against the bedroom window, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. "We’re dead," he stammered, his eyes darting toward the roof outside. "We’re dead, Elias. You don't know who they work for."
"Shut up," I hissed, grabbing him by the collar of his designer shirt and hauling him away from the glass. "You brought this into my parents' home. You don't get to run."
Heavy, rhythmic boot steps struck the hardwood downstairs. There was no hesitation in their stride, no creeping around like common burglars. Whoever had kicked through the front deadbolt moved with the casual, terrifying confidence of men who owned everything in their path.
"Marcus!" a voice bellowed from the bottom of the landing. It was deep, raspy, seasoned with gravel and cheap tobacco. "You got three minutes to drag your sorry ass down these stairs before we come up and throw you out the window!"
Beside the bed, Mom had shrunk into the corner, clutching a pillow against her chest, her knuckles turning white. Chloe remained on the floor, shivering, her hands buried in her tangled hair. All the arrogance that had filled this room ten minutes ago—the smirks, the smug accusations about me stealing money—had evaporated, leaving only naked terror.
Dad stepped past me. His ash-wood cane dug deep into the carpet with every limping stride. His shoulders were bowed under the weight of sixty-eight years of hard labor, but the fury in his eyes burned hotter than it ever had.
"Arthur, no!" Mom gasped, reaching out weakly. "Call 911!"
"Phone lines are cut," Dad said flatly. He didn't even look back. He gripped the polished brass head of his cane until his knuckles shone like bone. "Nobody kicks down my front door. Nobody."
"Dad, wait," I said, stepping between him and the threshold. "Look at Marcus. These aren't regular thugs from the pool hall. If they came here from Cleveland, they're carrying iron. Let me handle it."
Dad looked at me, and for the first time in my life, I saw the veil drop from his face. The disappointment, the stubborn suspicion, the iron-fisted pride—all of it had crumbled away, revealing an old man drowning in regret. "Elias... I put a hammer to your fingers. An hour ago, I was ready to break your hand."
"We'll settle that later," I whispered. "Right now, stay behind me."
I walked out onto the landing and looked down over the banister.
Standing in the amber glow of the foyer chandelier were two men. The one in front was broad-shouldered and thick-necked, wearing an expensive camel-hair overcoat that hung open over a charcoal suit. His face looked like it had been carved from butcher's tallow, scarred along the left jawline. The second man was younger, leaner, clad in a black nylon jacket, his hands casually shoved into his pockets. But the slight bulge beneath his left armpit was unmistakable.
The older man looked up, his pale eyes locking onto mine.
"You aren't Marcus," the man said, tilting his head. "Where is he, kid? He owes Mr. Vane eighty-two thousand dollars, and the interest ticked up an hour ago."
"Marcus is up here," I said, keeping my voice level, steady, hiding the tremor in my chest. "And you just committed a class-two felony kicking down that door."
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The man chuckled, a dry, clicking sound in the back of his throat. He reached inside his coat, pulled out a gold cigarette case, and snapped it open. "Call the sheriff if you want, kid. By the time that fat deputy finishes his coffee at the diner, this whole house will be nothing but ash and bone. Now tell Marcus to bring down the watch and the deed, or we come up."
Behind me, in the dark bedroom, Marcus let out a whimpering sob.
