Chapter 13 - The Cheap Motel in SkokieWhile my life was reclaiming its quiet order, Evan and Diane were learning the true price of their arrogance.
Having been turned away by Uncle Arthur and stripped of access to our joint accounts, Evan had been forced to use the small amount of physical cash in his wallet to check himself and his mother into a budget motel off the highway in Skokie.
The room smelled of stale tobacco and industrial cleanser.
Evan sat on the edge of the saggy mattress, wearing a pair of sweatpants he had bought at a gas station, staring at his muted phone screen. Every ten seconds, a new notification popped up:
Mercer & Associates: Formal Notice of Termination. Chase Bank: Account Access Suspended — Fraud Investigation. Brooke Mercer: Missed Call (12)
Fiona—or Diane—sat in a plastic chair by the window, her face pale, her hair uncombed, weeping hysterically into her hands.
“Call Arthur again, Evan!” Diane sobbed, clutching her cheap plastic rosary. “Tell him he has to post our bail when the police come! He’s your uncle! He has millions!”
“Arthur blocked my number, Mom!” Evan screamed, snapping his head toward her, his eyes wild and bloodshot. “Everyone blocked my number! My firm fired me! My car lease was terminated this morning because the auto-pay bounced!”
“It’s that bitch’s fault!” Diane shrieked, her voice cracking with desperate hatred. “She planned this! She tricked us with that camera!”
“She didn’t trick us!” Evan roared, jumping up from the bed and pacing the tiny room like a caged animal. “You forged her signature on a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar lien! You told me she didn’t care about the house! You told me it was ours!”
“I did it for Brooke!” Diane wailed. “Her business was failing!”
“And now Brooke won’t even answer her phone!” Evan yelled, slamming his fist against the laminate desk. “We have nothing! Do you understand me, Mom?! Nothing!”
A loud, sharp knock echoed at the thin wooden door of the motel room.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
“Cook County Sheriff’s Office!” a voice boomed from the exterior corridor. “Evan Mercer, Diane Mercer, open the door!”
Diane let out a strangled shriek, shrinking back against the window.
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Evan stood frozen in the center of the room, looking at the door, then down at his trembling, empty hands. There were no servants to command, no wife to humiliate, and no luxury status to shield him.
The illusion was dead.
