Chapter One
Hilda Santiago warned me that women should always work in pairs. Hilda was a former repo agent herself, so she had the experience to pass along these pearls of wisdom. Of course, her pearls usually included a smattering of choice curse words and a long drag on her cigarette. Thankfully, I learned early on that wisdom came in many forms.
“Just because Alicia is out today doesn’t mean I can’t work,” I said. "Logan has a stomach bug every other week.” I never knew a kid could come down with so many illnesses. He was only six and he seemed prone to pick up any germ that came within a mile radius of him. My daughter was ten and I could count on one hand the number of school days she missed due to sickness. Then again, she was an aggressive hand washer.
"Fine," Hilda said, tossing the file across the metal desk. "Don't come crying to me whenthis guy verbally abuses you."
I flipped open the file. "I can handle verbal abuse. It's physical abuse I'm not too excited about." I scanned the paperwork. “Nice car. What happened?" Probably a divorce. That was often the outcome when money got divided. The douchebag probably didn't want to give up his luxury sports car, but he needed to cry poverty in order to avoid paying half in the divorce settlement.
“Not sure. Just be careful," Hilda said. "I don't need to be down two agents."
"I'm a single mom with a mountain of bills," I said. “The only way I’m down and out is if someone puts me in the ground.”
“Don’t jinx yourself.” Hilda stubbed out her cigarette and peered at me. "You're a goodmom, Ember. You remind me of..."
I waved her off. "I know, I know. I remind you of your own mother. God bless her weary soul."
A hint of a smile appeared on her puckered lips. "Okay, so maybe I tell you that a little too often, but Rosario Santiago was as good as they come. They don’t make women like her anymore.”
“And the world is a sorrier place for it.” Hilda could talk for another twenty minutes about her mother, depending on her mood.
“Good luck today,” she said. “Try to come back in one piece.”
“As long as I can get paid, I’ll come back in as many pieces as necessary to walk through the door.” I’d stopped answering my phone thanks to all of the collection agency calls I'd been receiving. I considered getting rid of the phone altogether, but I needed it for work and Marley's school, if nothing else.
I left the small, nondescript office building and sat in the tow truck while I studied the file. A cold Wawa coffee cup sat in the cup holder.
I looked up the address on my phone. The neighborhood was about twenty minutes away in a community called the Enclave. I could tell without looking that it was a gated community. That made things a little trickier, albeit not impossible. If I went now, then most of his neighbors had hopefully left for work already. I tried to spare people the embarrassment of public humiliation whenever possible. It was just good karma.
I switched on the radio as I traveled on back roads to the wealthy neighborhood. I had a weakness for 80’s and 90’s music, thanks to my father and his own musical obsession. My friends in high school thought I was strange for choosing Prince and Def Leppard over Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber, but some of my best memories were dancing with my dad to Come on, Eileen. He told me that my mother loved Madonna and Cyndi Lauper, so I made a point of knowing their songs inside and out in an effort to feel close to her. Although she died not long after I was born, my father made sure that he told me everything about her. My childhood bedtime included a chapter in a book and a story about my mother. My father never wanted me to feel deprived of her, even though we both knew that I had been.
The squat ranchers and broken-down bungalows began to morph into bigger and better houses. I was moving from the lower class neighborhoods to the middle class. Soon I’d reach the upper echelon of housing. While I waited at a traffic light, I took the opportunity to research the property taxes. I had a warped interest in how much someone paid each year for property taxes, especially in New Jersey, where the cost was notoriously high. Sure enough, this guy paid twenty-eight thousand dollars a year in property taxes. His house wasn’t even particularly big, only 4500 square feet. This was the reason I lived in a two-bedroom apartment. Okay, it wasn't the whole reason. I also didn’t have any money for a down payment on a mortgage. Minor details.
As I expected, the Enclave was a gated community. I hoped the person in the gatehouse was sympathetic to me. Sometimes they looked the other way and didn't give the homeowner a heads-up that a repo agent was headed their way. It was best to do my job unhindered. I took one look at the older man behind the glass and knew I'd have my work cut out for me. He seemed like the kind of guy who wanted to befriend the owners in the neighborhood, particularly a Maserati-driving guy like James Litano.
I could tell by the scowl on his face that he didn’t appreciate the presence of my tow truck on his turf. He pulled open the glass window as I rolled down mine. His bushy gray brow lifted when he saw my arm pumping and realized that my window was manual. No fancy electric for me.
"Are you lost?" the older man asked. "There's a Wal-Mart about three miles that way if that's what you're looking for."
"Wow," I exclaimed. "They let a Wal-Mart within three miles of this pristine community?What were the town planners thinking?" So maybe that response was not the way to win him over. Note to self: more teeth, less attitude.
His scowl deepened. "This is a private community. How can I help you?"
"I'm here to see James Litano,” I said, producing my business card. He took it, examining it closely.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked, handing it back to me. I noticed that the scowl had been replaced by a look of concern.
"I have to do my job, just like you have to do yours," I said.
He leaned out of the window and peered into my truck. ”You alone?"
Now he sounded like Hilda. What was it with older people and their concern for me?
"Yes, I’m alone. I assure you, though, I've done this job for two years now. I can handleMr. Litano."
He hesitated briefly. “Do you carry?"
“No, I don't have a gun," I said. Although I'd considered it, statistically, it was more likelyto be used on me, so I’d opted out. I had a ten-year-old daughter to consider. I did, however, keep a pocketknife close to hand. I wasn't a complete moron.
The gatekeeper glanced around nervously. "Listen, I'm going to let you through without calling up to the house. If anybody asks, you snuck in when a delivery van came through. Are we clear?"
I nodded vigorously.
He opened the gate and I continued into the development. Each house was grander than the last. Lawns were perfectly manicured, at least two acres per house. It was a far cry from my dumpy apartment complex. I bet these houses had laundry facilities on the second floor. I'd read about houses like that, magical places where you never had to carry a laundry basket up multiple flights of stairs. Maybe someday.
I finally arrived at my destination. 121 Arlington Street. I was disappointed by the street names in this development. I enjoyed the neighborhoods with a theme, like Robin Hood Lane and Maid Marian Court.
The Litano house was one of the largest houses on the block. While it was certainly big and grand, it was also tacky, with blinged-out lights and an animal throw rug on the covered front porch.
I fervently hoped there were no small children at home. I dreaded child witnesses more than verbal abuse. I hated the thought of scarring these children with the memory of their father's car being taken away. I also didn't like to speculate as to whether he took his frustration out on the children later.
I hopped out of the truck and set to work as quietly as possible. Although I could serve him with paperwork, I opted to get in and out quickly. The gatekeeper gave me the sense that knocking on the door was a bad idea. Maybe I’d get lucky and he'd still be asleep. After about ten minutes, I managed to get everything hooked up and climbed into the truck, ready to roll. The sound of the front door slamming alerted me to his presence.
Uh oh.
I heard a string of loud obscenities before I saw him in the side view mirror. He was a large man, about six feet three and solidly built, with thick, dark hair and olive skin. He wore sweatpants and an Eagles T-shirt. He'd probably been working out in his basement gym. He didn't come and tap on the window like I expected. Instead, he stood directly in front of the truck, a menacing look on his face. Smart.
"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" he shouted.
I wasn't stupid enough to roll down the window, so I yelled as loudly as I could. "What does it look like? I'm repossessing your car. You haven't made your payments. What did you expect to happen?“
"Release that car right now or you’re going to regret it," he said. His deep, menacing voice rolled through the windshield like thunder.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir," I said. Maybe a little deference would break the tension.
"Listen up, you stupid bitch," he shouted.
Or maybe not.
I could see the throbbing vein in his neck. "Leave my car alone or I'm going to hurt you in ways you didn't know existed."
Well, that didn't sound promising.
I started the engine of the truck, which only served to aggravate him more. He began beating on the hood with his fists. I didn't want to run him over, but I was willing to hit the gas if he wasn't going to budge. I had to get out of here before he did serious damage to the vehicles or me.
"Last chance," he said.
From inside the safety of the truck, I shook my head. Then he did something that made my spine tingle with fear.
He smiled.
I watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. Too small to be a gun. A phone? Was he going to call someone? That seemed more reasonable.
Then it hit me. It wasn’t a phone. It was a lighter.
“Do you know what they call me?” he yelled.
I had a few ideas, but decided to keep them to myself in a futile attempt to live longer.
“Jimmy the Lighter.”
First, he bent down and I watched in the mirror as he took the cap off the air valve. Sweet baby Elvis—he was letting the air out of the back tire. Then he began kicking the side of the vehicle with such force that the truck rocked back and forth. I realized that he was focused on damaging the gas tank.
I rolled the window down less than an inch. “Popcorn balls,” I screamed. “Are you crazy?"
He laughed. "You're about to die and the best you got is popcorn balls? Lady, you gotta do better than that."
I was about to die. He’d just confirmed it.
“I have a daughter,” I yelled. “I try to set a good example for her.”
“Not anymore,” he yelled back.
I watched in horror as a small flicker of light appeared and he tossed it toward the gas tank.
The truck went up in flames almost immediately. My mind was in a blind panic. My only thought was of my daughter. Marley was only ten and I was about to leave her an orphan. We had no family except each other. Where would she go? Would she end up in foster care? Nobody adopted ten-year-olds these days. Not with IVF and surrogates and the ability to buy your own designer baby. My baby was gently used, Goodwill-style.
My heart seized.
My sweet darling with her midnight black hair and beautiful blue eyes. The new and improved mini-me. Everything I'd ever done since she was born was for her benefit. And now I was letting her down in the most spectacular way possible. Why had I insisted on coming here today? I should have just waited for Alicia and come tomorrow. I could have survived another day without cash.
Time slowed.
I felt the heat pressing upon me, sucking out the oxygen. The bright orange flames licked the metal frame of the vehicle. I watched it sweep across the hood. What was I doing? If I sat here, I would die. If I left the truck, I would die.
Out on the front lawn, Jimmy the Lighter laughed.
“Stop the fire. Stop the fire.” My head was spinning. I knew I needed to stay calm and focus, but it wasn’t happening.
He was going to kill me over a car. Deprive a child of her mother because of an object. A thing. What was wrong with this world?
Something snapped inside me. It felt like the pop and spark of a light bulb. A wave of energy rolled over me. My body began to tingle, especially my hands. I gripped the steering wheel.
“If only it would rain,” I said aloud. That would take care of the fire.
The familiar sound of thunder caught my attention. When Jimmy glanced up at the sky, I knew I hadn’t imagined it.
The downpour was swift and immediate. The rain fell so hard, it extinguished the flames in
mere seconds. I couldn’t believe my luck. I never had luck. I mean, I couldn’t even win a dollar from a scratch-off lottery ticket.
Jimmy was soaking wet and very, very unhappy. He stared at me through the window like it was all my fault.
I didn’t wait for his next move. I hit the gas and the truck lurched forward, nearly knocking him down in the process. Although the truck wasn’t very fast with a flat tire, at least it moved.
“This isn’t over,” he screamed. “I’ll find you—and your daughter.”
I pressed the pedal as far as it would go and headed for the office, trying not to hyperventilate on the way. I had no clue what had happened back there and I couldn’t bear to think about it. I had to have imagined the whole thing. Maybe this was all a bad dream. I’d ordered Chinese food last night. It was a distinct possibility.
Only when the gated community disappeared from my rear view did I allow myself to breathe.
It was a long drive back to the office.
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