Everything to Lose

For the past year, Brandon and I had been living exclusively on what I brought in; Jim was MIA. Maybe I’d let it go on for too long. The couple of guys I got close to and who I might have seen something happening with both backed off when they got to meet my son. And in truth, he was a handful. I was thirty-six, an eyelash from being broke, months behind in my school payments, with a house my ex had left me that was now completely underwater and a son who ate up every cent I earned.

I saw what was ahead of me, the way the driver in a chase scene going ninety might see the upcoming cliff. Every night I fell asleep, my arms wrapped tightly around my pillow, knowing that all it would take would be one unexpected nudge to send us over the edge.

And how there was no one, not a single person in this world, to catch us.

I’d been there years before in my own life, feeling the terror of sudden abandonment and instability, and that was the last thing I wanted my own son to feel.

Yet somehow we always made it through. A bonus here, a tax refund there. And Brandon showed such clear signs of improvement, it made everything worthwhile. The little nudge that could send us toppling never seemed to come.

At least, not until yesterday, that is.

My boss, Steve Fisher, called a bunch of us into the conference room. It looked like most of the division I worked for. There was Dale Schliffman from accounts, and two of his senior managers. Dawn Ianazzone from Creative. She’d been hired about when I was. A couple of administrative people who worked on the Cesta account.

I knew we were in trouble when I saw Rose from personnel standing alongside.

Steve looked uncomfortable. “Yesterday Cesta informed me that they were going to be making a change … A change of agencies …” He shrugged sadly. “I’m afraid that means there have to be a few changes around here as well.”

I heard a gasp or two. Someone muttered, “Holy shit.” Mostly we all just looked around, suddenly realizing exactly why we were there.

An hour later, in my one-on-one, Steve shook his head, frustrated. “Hil, you know you’ve done nothing but first-rate work since you’ve been here. I wish there was something we could do.”

“Steve …” I didn’t want to beg, but I could barely stop the tears. “I have Brandon.”

“I know.” He let out a sympathetic breath, nodding. “Look, let me check one more time. I’ll see if there’s anything we can do.”

Which ended up as just an extra week’s salary for the four years I’d been there. And one more month on the health plan before I went on COBRA.

I was officially in free fall now.

Which explained why I was here tonight on this winding, backcountry road, heading to Jim’s, which I hadn’t been to in years other than to drop off Brandon for a weekend every couple of months. And even that had become rarer and rarer these days.

When I saw what looked like a deer dart across the road about fifty yards ahead, and the car in front of me go into a swerve.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_d09303f0-5e7b-5176-a7f6-e3aae544eba2)

It was a black Kia or a Honda or something. I was never the best at recognizing cars. It swerved to avoid the deer as it bolted past and then another car heading in the other direction.

Maybe the driver got blinded in the lights.

The front of his car spun out. He was going around fifty, and was headed into a curve. I watched him make a last effort to brake, then the back end drifted off the shoulder and suddenly the car just rolled.

A jolt of horror ripped through me.

The curve was at a steep embankment and the car plummeted over the edge and tumbled down. I hit the brakes, craning my neck as I went by. I watched it roll over and over until it disappeared into the dense woods. I heard the jarring sound of impact as it came to a stop against a tree.

Oh my God!

I screeched to a stop about twenty yards past the crash site. I leaped out and ran back to take a look, my heart racing. I smelled the steamy burn of rubber on pavement and the smoke coming from the engine down below. I could see the car’s taillights, still on; it had cut a path though the thick brush. It was clear that whoever was inside had to be badly hurt.

I was about to race down when another car backed up on the far side of the road, the one that must have passed it a moment earlier. The driver, a man with a round face and thin, reddish hair combed over a bald spot, put down his window. “What’s happened?”

“Someone drove off the road,” I told him. “I’m going down.”

I headed down the incline, tripping on the brush and losing my footing in the damp soil. I fell on my rear, scraping my arm, and got up. I knew I had to get there quick. The car had spun over twice and come to a rest right side up, the front grill sandwiched between a couple of trees. I saw that the roof near the driver’s seat was severely dented.

I could see someone in the driver’s seat. A man. His door was wedged against a tree. I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. I peered through the window and didn’t see anyone else. I knew I had to get this guy out. He didn’t seem to be conscious. He could be dying. He looked around seventy, white hair, balding, slumped against the wheel, blood streaming down one side of his face. He wasn’t moving or uttering a sound.

The engine was smoking.

“Are you all right?” I rapped on the glass. “Can you hear me?”

He didn’t respond. It was clear he was either dead or unconscious.

“Mister, are you okay?” I tugged on the driver’s door one more time, but you’d have to rip it off or move the car.

From above, I heard the driver of the other car call down, “Is everyone all right down there? Do you need help?”

“Call 911!” I shouted back up. I’d left my phone in the car. “Tell ’em there’s a single driver who’s not responding. I can’t get to him. The door’s stuck, and I don’t know, I think maybe he’s dead. They need to send an ambulance.”

I could barely catch a glimpse of the guy through the brush as he hurried back to his car. I looked at the smoking hood and had a sudden fear that any second the engine might catch fire. Maybe the right thing was to back off and wait for help, but with the guy non-responsive, the engine smoking, the stronger voice inside me pushed me to see if he was alive.

I ran around to the passenger side. The door there wasn’t obstructed and opened easily. I wedged myself into the seat. In front of me, the driver’s head was pitched forward and a trickle of blood ran down his forehead as if it had been bludgeoned against the wheel. His eyes were rolled up. His white hair was matted with red. I reached across and pushed him back against the seat. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?” Again, he didn’t respond. I’d taken a CPR course a few years back, but there didn’t seem to be anything I could do for him.

There was a black leather satchel on the floor mat that must have fallen off the seat in the crash. I picked it up so I could squeeze in closer.

My heart almost jumped out of my chest at what I saw.

A wad of money. Hundred-dollar bills. Neatly wrapped together. I couldn’t help but pick it up and flip through. There had to be a hundred of them—Jesus, Hilary!—bound together by a rubber band. A hundred hundreds would be what …? I did the math, ten thousand dollars. The satchel was open slightly at the top, and so far the guy hadn’t moved or even uttered a sound. I couldn’t help but satisfy my curiosity, unzipping it all the way open.

This time my heart didn’t jump—it stopped. And if my eyes had been wide before, they surely doubled now.

Holy shit, Hil …

The bag was filled with similarly bound packets of cash. All hundreds! Reflexively I pawed through them. There were dozens of them. This time the math was a little harder to calculate.

I was looking at hundreds of thousands of dollars.

I looked over at the driver and tried to figure out what some old guy driving a beat-up Honda would be doing with this kind of cash. Maybe the receipts from a business. No, that wouldn’t make sense; they wouldn’t be all hundreds. Maybe the guy’s life savings that he’d been hoarding for years under his bed.

More likely something illegal, I speculated.

I pulled myself across the seat and tried to determine one last time if he was alive or dead. I even put my hand on his shoulder and shook him. He didn’t move. I spotted a cell phone in his lap and picked it up. There was a phone number and a partially written text on the screen. “Heading back wi—”

Heading back with what?

Heading back with the cash, of course. What else would it be? The message hadn’t been sent. On a hunch I looked for the time of that last entry: 6:41 P.M. It was 6:44 now. He’d probably been about to text that when the deer bolted out in front of him. That’s why he couldn’t control his car. Something that every father begs his own son or daughter not to do …

I put the phone back.