Chapter 4
ELOWYN
When I was a young girl, waking up in the middle of the night was like stepping into another world.
One that often belonged to Mom and me, until Duncan moved in. I’d usually find her upstairs in her room, up late reading. She’d smile when I appeared in the doorway of her and Dad’s bedroom, get out of bed, and together, we’d go downstairs.
At the kitchen island, she and I would share tea and chat about anything.
Mostly about the importance of family.
As in Barclay.
Keep an eye out for your brother. Don’t let him get into trouble. You’re my smart, brave girl. I trust you.
To this day, I embrace that role. I really try to love it too.
Tonight, though, it isn’t working, and that realization fills me with guilt.
How dare I enjoy the silence, the late hour, the time alone? How dare I relish the fact that Barclay isn’t barking orders at me, that he’s passed out upstairs, drugged up on pain meds?
I don’t have an answer for that, and you know what? I just don’t care. I’m going to let myself have this, guilt and all. For the first time today, I get to lounge around in my thick wool pajamas and socks, bundled up to stay warm since we can’t afford the heat.
My hair, pinned into a tight bun at work, spills loosely down my back instead of tugging at my roots.
Until my eyes flutter closed and exhaustion forces me to head up to my room, I resolve to cling to my happiness.
As much as I can, anyway, given the pile of mail in front of me.
It’s hard to ignore the nagging feeling that comes with it, even with a steaming cup of chamomile tea waiting for me on the counter.
How are we going to keep paying all these bills?
There’s only so much stalling I can do. Only so many hours in a day I can work. I might even get caught, fired, or sued for stealing the pills. And then what?
You wouldn’t have been better off with Duncan.
Financially, that’s true.
But money wouldn’t have mattered then, since my life would’ve been complete.
I would’ve known love. I would’ve had him. Both things would’ve been worth every struggle. Every worry over unpaid bills or a leaking roof.
I let out a low, derisive laugh. God, I’m pathetic. Pining after someone who was disgusted with the idea of me, does it get any worse than that?
“Enough. Time to go through the mail,” I declare to the empty kitchen. “That’s what I have to focus on.”
Sorting through the ads is the easiest. Their fliers are glossy and colorful, filled with all the things I can’t afford. The next few envelopes are bills. I open them up, setting them aside for later.
The envelope I saved for last sits thick and white on the counter. The county’s stamp is the only indicator of what could be in there.
A few sips of my tea, then I rip off the proverbial Band-Aid, tearing the envelope open. The papers slide out, still warm, smelling faintly of toner. Like it was printed minutes ago.
My eyebrows knit, a faint warning ringing at the back of my skull.
Who even works this late on the city council? And what couldn’t wait until morning?
I gulp around the knot in my throat.
Then I read the heading, and my stomach plummets.
EVICTION NOTICE—NONPAYMENT OF PROPERTY TAXES
“No.” I blink. I squint. With trembling hands, I lift the page closer. “No.”
No matter how many no’s I mumble, the words stay the same. Stark black on harsh white.
EVICTION NOTICE—NONPAYMENT OF PROPERTY TAXES
A small, broken sound slips out of me, the air punched from my lungs.
We’re about to be thrown out of our home.
My brother…
Barclay isn’t well enough to move out on a minute’s notice. He can barely walk to the bathroom by himself without wincing and cursing in pain.
And even if he were mobile, where would we go?
No landlord in New York would rent to us. One look at our credit history, and the answer would be an automatic no.
Barclay might still have a friend or two left, though he never mentions them. But even if they exist, I doubt they’d want anything to do with us.
While he might be able to intimidate people behind closed doors, bringing us into their homes is a whole other story.
It’d be public, and we’re social pariahs now. No amount of influence would convince someone to take that risk.
This can’t be the end for us. For Barclay, mainly.
It can’t. It can’t.
It can’t.
Darkness clouds the edges of my vision, and I blink it away. Take a deep breath. Massage my temples in a weak attempt to calm down.
There has to be a way out. Some loophole, some clause, some way to postpone this.
A long-term payment plan. An appeal. Anything.
I snatch the papers back up, fingers tightening on the edges until they crumple. I’m thorough as I scan the text beneath those damning words, desperate for a lifeline.
There isn’t one. Just more pain, stacked sentence after sentence.
They’re all awful, and yet this one crushes me the hardest: Failure to remit payment within sixty days will result in immediate removal from the premises.
My lips press together as I hold back sobs of shame. Of fear. Of pain from being abandoned to fend for myself yet again.
Then, something happens. For the first time, my desperation transforms into a ball of white-hot rage. The longer I look at the papers, the bigger it grows. Doubling in size. Tripling.
I’m not even sure what actually pisses me off; I’m just mad.
So mad that I curl my hand into a fist and slam it into the counter. My tea shakes, hot liquid sloshing inside the mug, splashing out onto the granite.
“Fuck.”
The word feels as foreign to my mouth as the sharp crack of my hand against the counter did.
“Fuck,” I repeat, bringing my hand down on the counter again.
Nothing helps. Not cursing. Not violence. If anything, the burning in my chest spreads, seeping into the rest of my body.
“I’m going to fix this,” I growl at the paper. “This isn’t the end.”
My renewed sense of mission sends me flying off my stool and up the stairs. The eviction notice never slips from my grip.
Old family photos line the hallway, staring me down as I storm toward my room, disapproving of what I’m about to do.
How can they judge me?
They had money. Resources. A roof over their heads.
Soon, all I’ll have is a street corner.
Unless I do something about it. Unless I accept the mysterious art restorer’s offer.
Which I will. I don’t need a knight in shining armor. Don’t need friends or connections.
I’ll do this one thing for The Restorer, and my brother and I will be saved.
Barclay will come around. I’m sure of it.
Once money starts flowing in, once he gets better care, he won’t call me a whore.
He might even be grateful that I accepted the invitation, even though it means going against his orders.
As I step into my bedroom, I whisper to myself, “Everything will be okay. It has to be.”
At the end of my bed, I finally slow to a stop. My heart races, cheeks hurting from the wild smile that’s taken over them.
I place the crumpled papers on my white bedspread and bend to lift the mattress.
The invitation is waiting there, just like it was earlier when I got home from work.
It’s something I’ve been doing daily, checking up on it. Though Barclay can hardly get out of bed and is high on pain meds half the time, he can still walk. I can’t tell what he does here while I’m away.
Ever since he broke the key inside the lock of my bedroom, I have no way of keeping him out either.
But my lack of privacy isn’t important anymore.
This matters. I grab the invitation and rush to the phone charging on my bedside table, adding the number from the back to my contacts.
With shaky hands, I open a text window and start typing a message that isn’t a simple yes. It can’t be, since my future employer has to accept my terms. Otherwise, I won’t be able to leave Barclay.
I write and erase the message more times than I want to admit.
That phrasing is too docile. That one’s too sharp. The other is too demanding.
What do you say to a man you’ve never met? How do you negotiate when you’ve only ever done it once and failed?
“To hell with it,” I mutter. “It’s just a text.”
Nodding to myself, I silence the ugly whispers telling me I’m not good enough and type without deleting a single thing, leaving out my tax issues. I have sixty days to figure it out. I’ll deal with it when I get there. When The Restorer and I are friendly, chatting over art and working together.
When I’m done, I read my text just to make sure I wrote everything down.
Me: This is Elowyn Montgomery. I accept The Restorer’s invitation only if my brother has live-in nurses with him around the clock. And a doctor to adjust his meds when needed. You’ll make sure his prescriptions are filled too. Sorry. Thank you.
I hit send before I can think better of it. Slam my eyes shut. What was I thinking, asking for all of this?
The compensation I was promised is more than I ever could’ve dreamed of. If fulfilled, these requests would be another small fortune my future employer would have to bear.
He’s going to say no. He will, and we’ll be out on the street.
Three dots flash on my screen. There and gone. There and gone.
Oh God. Oh God.
Can’t he just say no and put me out of my misery?
I’m so consumed by dread that when his text pops up, I have to read it twice.
The Restorer: You have yourself a deal, Miss Montgomery.
A black Mercedes will be waiting outside your gates in ten minutes.
Shred this invitation, leave your phone at home, and delete these messages and this number, in case you added it to your contacts.
Last but not least, don’t pack. Anything you might need will be provided upon arrival.
A watery laugh escapes me as the meaning of his words becomes clear.
He said yes. He actually agreed to my over-the-top terms.
I’m about to hop up and down with excitement when a dose of reality hits me.
How did he find a driver who’s available on a moment’s notice?
Is The Restorer one of my neighbors? One of the many people who hate me?
I don’t think so. But that would mean he had to call a car service. The closest ones are at least thirty minutes out, even this late, when traffic is nonexistent.
My teeth graze my bottom lip absentmindedly. Then a smile breaks across my face when I decide that no, it’s not that strange.
After all, The Restorer chose me. He answered instantly because he’s been waiting for my reply.
Soon, I’ll find out why.
Until that happens, I’m going to trust that something in me is worth nurturing. Worth choosing. Worth…restoring?
I don’t know. If I don’t get on this ride, I probably never will. Tears of joy and relief roll down my cheeks as I type back a message, telling him I’ll be there.
My heart punches at my ribs as I shoot a resignation text to my boss. After that, I delete the messages and The Restorer’s number. Next, I change into a pair of jeans and a gray blouse. On top of that, I throw on a peacoat and shove my feet into my boots.
As quietly as possible, I tread through the hallway, the stairs, the foyer.
I’m going through with it, and that’s final.