Page 52 of Brewer Family Collection, Part 1

Chloe

“ G ood night, Mimi,” I say from her doorway. “Do you want me to turn on a fan to help with the noise?”

She’s propped up in her bed, an old Western playing silently on the small TV across the room. Her hair is in rollers, and a fresh coat of pink nail polish shimmers on her fingertips. She smiles with freshly sugar-scrubbed lips.

“Yes, and I’ll turn my television up, too,” she says. “If you don’t mind turning on my fan, I’d appreciate it. Someone’s smoking something somewhere, and it’s starting to make me a little woozy.”

“Do you need a pain reliever or a drink of water?” I ask, switching on the fan.

“Oh no. I’m fine.” She holds up a shaky hand and gingerly explores the knot on her forehead with her fingertips. “Just a little purple.”

“If you start to have a headache again, you better tell me.”

She snorts. “I’m not telling you. You’ll let Greta’s grandson in here again, and I’ll wind up breaking his fingers if he wags them in my face one more time.”

“ Mimi .” I laugh, shaking my head. “Be nice. He’s an EMT. Greta offered to send him over to check you out— for free. I couldn’t turn down the offer.”

And I wanted a quick meetup with him to make sure he still passed the vibe check.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure. It’s not his fault because I know I was comparing him to Jason Brewer, which is wholly unfair.

No one would stand a chance against Jason.

But that doesn’t mean I can override my squashed interest in Thomas and pretend I want him to bend me over the hood of his car again.

Dammit, anyway.

“I’m just old, Chloe. I’m not deaf. I don’t need him in my face and yelling at me like I’m hard of hearing. I can hear just fine.” She clenches her jaw and turns back to the Western. “And he’s gonna hear me give him a piece of my mind if he tries that shit again.”

I sigh. “Yell if you need me.”

“You know I have a cell phone, right? I can text you. Or call you. I don’t have to yell.”

“What is wrong with you tonight?” I ask, laughing. “You’re ornery as hell.”

“I just got pissed off again thinking about Thomas and his skinny little finger shoved in my face.” She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “Next time, I’ll take it and shove it up his?—”

“ Good night, Mimi ,” I say loud enough to drown out her rant. “I love you.”

She smiles. “I love you, too, honey. Sleep tight.”

I pull her door closed and take the few steps to the kitchen.

The air is scented with the popcorn I had for dinner and the sauerkraut the people across the hall apparently had for theirs. I flip on the light, waiting for it to finish flickering before plucking the papers I hid from Mimi off the top of the refrigerator.

My stomach sours as I reread the return label. Marquis Morrison Insurance Co .

“How can they get away with this?” I whisper, releasing a long, hard breath. I tap the envelope against my palm and sigh.

The letter was at the bottom of the stack of mail delivered today. I almost mistook it for junk and tossed it in the garbage. A part of me wishes I had.

I scan the letter once again, looking for their contact information. Thankfully, I spy a twenty-four-hour customer service number.

“Mimi?” I poke my head into her room, working hard to keep my tone light. “I’m going to go for a quick walk. I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay.”

I turn for the entryway, open the envelope, and type the customer service number printed at the top of the letterhead into my phone. Then I slip into the hallway and lock the door behind me.

Sitcoms and music drift out of each apartment as I pass. I take the stairs quickly down one floor, my finger hovering over the phone but wait until I reach the entry before pressing the green button.

The doors to the Pliny Building squeal as they open.

Cigarette smoke clouds the steps, the inhabitants of the complex not giving a crap about the sign forbidding that exact behavior that hangs behind them.

I fan my face, trying not to breathe in the putrid smell, as I find a relatively quiet spot next to a tree in the vacant lot beside our building.

Car alarms and sirens wail in the distance as I work through several prompts, and it takes a few minutes to wade through the questions before I get a human.

“Thank you for calling Morrison Insurance Company. This is Savannah. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with today?”

“Hi. This is Chloe Goodman.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “I received a termination letter today for my car insurance, and I’m unsure what happened. I sent my payment in on the seventh.”

“I’m happy to look into this for you, Ms. Goodman. May I get your birthdate and the last four digits of your social security number, please?”

“Sure.” I rattle off the information. “This has never happened before. I don’t know what’s going on.”

She clicks away on a keyboard. “All right, Ms. Goodman. It looks like your monthly installment was due on the first. We offer a ten-day grace period, as stated on your bill. But your check wasn’t received until the twelfth.”

“Okay. But you did receive it?”

“Yes, ma’am. But unfortunately, it was two days beyond the grace period, and your policy went into automatic termination.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I pace around the tree trunk.

“One easy way around this is to sign up for automatic bill pay,” she says, like I’m unaware of the marvels of modern technology.

“I know. I switched banks recently and am moving everything over slowly,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Look, I’ve been a customer with you for three years, and I’ve never missed a payment. I mailed it on the seventh. It’ll say that on the envelope.”

“I understand. However, it was due on the first. It was still technically six days late if you mailed it on the seventh.”

“So what do I do now? Do I have car insurance?”

“You do not.”

“ Oh my God ,” I groan, stopping in my tracks and looking up at the darkening sky. “Can you just reinstate it then?”

“That is possible, yes. But, because this policy was terminated for nonpayment, we’d need the remainder of the balance to do that. And, unfortunately, there are fees associated with the nonpayment.”

Tears fill my eyes. “How much are we talking?”

“That’s six hundred forty-two dollars and thirteen cents.”

I gasp. “You’re saying I need to pay six hundred-whatever dollars before you reinstate my insurance?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I blow out a wobbly breath.

“Would you like to make that payment? I can take it and get you back on track if you’d like.”

The thought of shelling out most of my savings because the postal service apparently chose to deliver my payment via the Pony Express makes me nauseous. My chest burns, tightening so fiercely that I press on it to try to relieve the pressure.

I have scrimped and saved every nickel to get us out of this hellhole.

Even though my salary at Brewer Air is good, money doesn’t go far—especially when rent is sky-high, there are bills to pay, and every month presents a new unforeseen expense like tires for my car and a hospital visit for Mimi’s bronchitis three months ago.

That six hundred-whatever dollars is a quarter of my savings. That could be the difference in getting out of here in six months … and not.

A solitary tear trickles down my cheek.

There’s no use in shopping around for prices. This was by far the cheapest company for the bare minimum coverage.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice cracking. “Please take it out of the bank account on file ending in 1122.”

She reads off a script, and I confirm payment.

“That does it,” she says. “You’ll receive an email confirmation shortly. Please read it, as there may be forms you need to fill out and return to us.”

“Lovely.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Goodman?”

I shake my head in frustration. “No. Thank you for your help.”

“You’re very welcome. Have a good night.”

“You, too.”

Blowing out a breath, I pull myself back together. “This wasn’t the energy I was supposed to be attracting.”

The ridiculousness of the statement makes me laugh. One of the men standing beside the door yells something my way, but I ignore him.

It will take me months to catch up to where I was fifteen minutes ago. All for nothing.

The temperature drops as the sun makes its final descent behind the horizon. The voices coming from the newly formed shadows are louder, and the sirens seem to get closer. At least if someone jumps me, I could get a few punches in. I could use an outlet tonight.

I move toward the building, and as I take my first step, my phone rings.

“Hello,” I say, not bothering to glance at the screen first. I keep my eyes up and scan the area.

“Chloe? Hey, it’s Jason. I hope it’s not too late.”

My steps falter at the bottom of the steps. Shit . “Hi, Jason. No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“I was hoping you could pull a few reports for me as soon as you get into the office and email them to me. I’ll send you a list of what I need. The finance meeting is at Gannon’s office in the morning, and I’m going to head straight there before coming into the office.”

I flip off one of the smokers in response to a lewd comment and swing open the door. “Of course.”

“Hey, little mama.” The man from 1B steps into the hallway. “Have you been cryin’, sweetheart? Come inside and let Daddy wipe those tears.”

“Chloe? Who was that?” Jason asks.

“Hang on,” I say into the phone before turning to Mustache Man. I slide my key between my fingers. “Why don’t you fuck all the way off?”

His belly bounces while he laughs. “Let’s do that together. You can hold on to these handlebars and ride me as long as you want.”

“Chloe!” Jason yells, his voice barreling over the line.

My neighbor reaches for me. I jerk my arm back, hitting my elbow on the wall. My phone goes flying down the hallway.

Mustache Man’s eyes glimmer with something I can’t name—something I’m too scared to identify.