Chapter 13 - The Cheap MotelWhile I worked with forensic accountants in air-conditioned high-rise offices, Julian and Fiona were learning what life looked like without my paycheck.
Without access to my accounts, Julian’s personal credit cards were declined within forty-eight hours. His BMW X5—which was registered solely in my name—had been towed from the underground garage after I reported it as a held asset under the protection order.
Having been turned away by his embarrassed socialite friends who wanted nothing to do with a man facing federal fraud charges, Julian had been forced to move himself and his mother into a budget motel on the outskirts of Skokie.
On Friday afternoon, my phone rang. The caller ID showed an unknown landline number.
I pressed record on my desk setup and answered smoothly. "Sloan Vance."
"Sloan... please..."
It was Fiona. But her voice was barely recognizable. The smooth, aristocratic cadence was gone, replaced by a raspy, weeping strain.
"Fiona," I said, my tone as cool as a frozen pond. "You are violating a legal order of communication through third parties."
"Sloan, you have to help us!" Fiona sobbed into the receiver, completely ignoring the warning. "We’re in a terrible place! The room is dirty, Sloan! The carpets smell like tobacco, and Julian is... Julian is drinking! He hasn't stopped drinking since Tuesday!"
"Then I suggest you call a rehabilitation center, Fiona," I replied. "It’s not my concern."
"How can you be so heartless?!" she wailed, her old entitlement briefly flaring through her tears. "We were your family! Julian loved you! He gave you his name! He gave you a life!"
"He gave me a thirty-five hundred dollar monthly mortgage bill, eighty thousand dollars in forged debt, and seven hours locked in a dark pantry," I corrected her sharply. "And you stood outside that door and laughed."
Silence fell over the line. Only the sound of her ragged breathing remained.
"Do you know what I did this morning, Fiona?" I asked softly.
"What..." she whispered trembling.
"I donated all sixty of your birthday gift boxes—the designer scarves, the perfume, the crystal stemware—to a local women's shelter," I said. "The women there were very grateful. They didn't even ask me to cook them sixty dishes."
"You... you monster..." Fiona choked out.
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"Don't call this number again, Fiona. The next sound you hear won't be my voice—it will be the Cook County Sheriff serving Julian with his felony fraud indictment."
I hung up the phone and marked the call time for Darcy’s legal log.
