Chapter 6 - The Eviction Notice
Within forty-eight hours, the full magnitude of the Hale family collapse hit the local news.
HALE LOGISTICS INVESTIGATED IN MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR TAX FRAUD SCANDAL.
The digital headlines featured a photo of my father walking out of his downtown office building with a briefcase held over his face to block the paparazzi cameras, flanked by federal agents.
The luxury home in Winnetka—the five-bedroom mansion where I had grown up feeling like an uninvited guest—was placed under immediate judicial lien. My mother’s credit cards were permanently canceled, her country club membership was suspended for non-payment of dues, and Madison’s brand-new Mercedes C-Class was repossessed from the parking lot of a yoga studio on Thursday afternoon.
None of them called me.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Madison left two voicemails on Tuesday night that started with screaming and ended with tearful demands for money, and my mother sent a text message calling me an ungrateful viper before her phone service was disconnected for non-payment.
I didn't listen to the voicemails. I deleted the text.
On Friday morning, Dr. Vance cleared me and Claire for discharge.
The weather outside was crisp and clear, the October sun warming the pavement as Theo—wait, no, there was no Theo. I didn't need a man to rescue me. I checked myself out of the hospital, carrying my own bag in one hand and the infant car seat in the other, and walked out the front doors into the bright sunlight.
Except I wasn't alone.
Parked at the curb in front of the maternity ward was a sleek, charcoal-gray Range Rover. The passenger door opened, and Marcus Vance stepped out, wearing a sharp tailored suit and a warm, reassuring smile.
“Need a lift, counselor?” Marcus asked, taking the hospital bag from my hand with effortless ease.
“Only if the driver knows how to avoid strip mall nail salons,” I replied, stepping into the luxurious, warm interior of the SUV.
Marcus laughed, sliding into the driver’s seat after securing Claire’s car seat safely in the back.
“I checked the route twice,” Marcus said, putting the car into drive. “No nail salons, no coffee shops, and no pit stops until we reach your new place.”
“My new place?” I raised an eyebrow, looking at him.
Marcus pulled a set of keys from his pocket and dropped them into my open palm. They were heavy, brass keys attached to a leather fob embossed with an address in Lincoln Park—a stunning, fully furnished two-bedroom condo with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park, paid for in advance through a three-year corporate housing lease that Mercer & Associates had apparently arranged as part of our “consulting retainer.”
“Your father’s assets are frozen, Olivia, but your whistleblower bounty percentage on the recovered tax fraud is going to clear probate in about six weeks,” Marcus explained smoothly, merging into the morning traffic. “Until then, consider this a temporary office space for a single mother launching her own independent corporate restructuring firm.”
I looked down at the keys in my hand, then back at Marcus.
May you like
“You planned this, didn't you?”
“I’m a lawyer, Olivia,” Marcus smiled, glancing at me in the rearview mirror where Claire was sleeping soundly. “I only execute strategies that have a hundred percent success rate.”
