15
After Derrick speeds off in his BMW, I stand beside my car, reeling. What the hell was that? All those promises he made to that poor woman—they can’t possibly be true. He did mention that her buy-in would provide a
good return, but my gut tells me something isn’t right.
I eye the page Derrick handed to me, thumbing through the others—the “legal stuff.” Though I know little of real estate, my
years working in finance have taught me a thing or two about contracts, and it’s clear that this is a deed of sale. So she
just signed over her home, her property to us, in exchange for a “penthouse” in an unfinished retirement community? Yeah,
this doesn’t add up. I scour the fine print and, near the bottom, spot an address for an LLC, in... the Bahamas. Of course. I keep reading, and a few more pages in, there it is—the address for the Danbury Estates. According to Google Maps, it’s
about nine miles away. I get in the car and turn on the engine. It’s time to take a little drive.
On the way, I call Frankie again, disappointed, though not surprised, when she doesn’t pick up. She’s stubborn, I know, but
I can’t shake the sound of her voice earlier—so cold, so foreign... like a stranger’s. Whatever the reason for our estrangement,
it must be significant. I shudder thinking about what circumstances may have led to this.
After a few miles traveling along some nondescript highway, GPS leads me to an exit, then down a winding road flanked by marshy grass—swampland on either side.
I do a double-take when I reach my destination—the supposed site of the “Danbury Estates.” There’s no construction site, no
cranes lifting beams, and certainly no rose garden, only cicadas buzzing in the distance. I hear Derrick’s voice in my head—“Home
for the holidays, right?”—and cringe, thinking of poor Mrs. Campbell.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. This is a total scam. How many other unsuspecting people have signed away their
homes to this guy, invested their life savings? I bury my head in my hands, remembering that neighbor, Ellen, on the front
porch this morning. Derrick asked me to countersign the document, to send it to escrow, so I’m not exactly an innocent bystander
here, but maybe something in between? It makes me sick to think that I may have played a role in his scheme today, even worse
that I’ve known about this all along but didn’t speak up. Could I be the Bonnie to his Clyde? Disgusted, I adjust the rearview
mirror, eyeing the scar on my cheek—this morning’s concealer wearing off in the humidity. If Derrick could con an old woman,
obviously he’s capable of conning me, too.
I grab my phone, keying in Frankie’s number again. But this time, I text instead of call:
I’m so sorry—about everything. Frankie, I’m in trouble. I need to talk to you. You’re the only one who can help. Please . I pause, remembering how we vowed to pick up the phone for each other anytime one of us texted the secret code. SOS , I type, before sending the text.
Thirty seconds later, my phone rings—Frankie. “Thank you,” I say, picking up, overcome with emotion.
“Okay, I’m listening,” she says, a little annoyed. “What is it?”
“Frankie... I... don’t know where to begin.”
“Are you okay?” she asks, her tone momentarily softening.
“No,” I say. “I’m not. I’m... in a world of trouble. Listen, I’m... having some memory issues. Amnesia, possibly.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor,” she suggests, her tone a little dismissive.
“Maybe. But first I need you to... help me remember.”
“Lena, we haven’t spoken in years.”
“Right. That’s what I need to understand. Why?”
She lets out a groan. “You really want me to say it?”
“I do. Frankie, I know this is hard, but if there was ever a moment in our past when you loved me, I need you to remember
that now. I need you to help me understand.”
She scoffs. “Are you messing with me or just helping your asshole husband with another one of his con jobs?”
“No,” I say, a little breathlessly. “I promise. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Okay, okay,” she continues. “All of it—the end of our friendship—it has to do with that jerk you’re married to.”
“Derrick,” I mutter.
“Oh, is that what he’s calling himself these days?” She laughs. “Yeah. When you guys met, he seemed too good to be true. I
warned you that he was love-bombing—all those trips, dinners, gifts. I was right, of course. But you wouldn’t listen—even
after that awful night at the bar.”
“Wait, what happened at the bar?”
“You know, when you tried to break up a fight he got into—with that thug who said he owed him money. Ringing a bell now? Or
maybe I need to remind you of the fourteen stitches on your cheek? I was there—I drove you to the ER.”
I pause, touching the scar on my face.
“But... Derrick didn’t hit me, did he?”
“No, but he might as well have. He put you in a dangerous situation.” She sighs. “He’s bad news, Lena. You refused to see
it then, but you must realize now.”
“I do,” I say, taking a deep breath. “And you’re right—you were right all along. Frankie, listen, Derrick’s running some sort of scam, preying on older people. He’s soliciting investments for a fancy retirement community that isn’t even real.”
“Not shocking at all,” Frankie replies with a long sigh. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know...”
“You should go to the police.”
“Yeah,” I say, my heart beating faster.
“Do you have any incriminating evidence on him? Something that’ll get him charged, guarantee an arrest?”
“I think so,” I reply, eyeing Mrs. Campbell’s signed contract on the passenger seat.
“Good,” Frankie says. “Lena, I know we’ve been through a lot—but... I’m worried about you. You need to keep yourself safe, okay? Who knows what that man is capable of?”
She still cares. “Thanks,” I say, my eyes welling up with tears. “Frankie, thank you so much.”
I press my foot to the pedal, driving fast—too fast. And yet, if I skidded out and crashed, would it even matter? I’d just
wake up somewhere else, in a new life—my bumps and bruises gone. But what if I don’t—what if it all goes... black?
This experience has been more than I can bear. I want out of this nightmare. I want it to end, but home feels far-off, and real life a mere memory that remains far from my reach. How many more days of this can I take? How many more alternate realities can I endure before my heart gives out, before I... do something crazy? I blink back tears as I accelerate, hurtling down the freeway at eighty-eight miles per hour, then ninety. I could end it all right now, make it all go black with one swerve to the left. I’d careen into the oncoming minivan, and—bam—this could be over. Oh, how I want it to be over. Gripping the wheel, I drift across the center line, which is when time seems to click into slow motion. Images flash through the windshield like snapshots from a scrapbook: A young mother at the wheel, pretty, smiling, with dirty blond hair tucked into a messy ponytail. Oblivious to my approach, her mouth opens and closes as if she’s singing. In the backseat, two small children, both in car seats, clap their hands happily.
I press my foot on the brake pedal, swerving right and narrowly avoiding the near-collision. Yes, I want this nightmare to
come to an end, but not by creating another one. I take a deep breath, wiping fresh tears from my cheeks. There must be a
way out of this. There has to be. But, until I find it, no more going off the rails. I have to stay strong.
I pull into the driveway, grateful that our chatty neighbor isn’t on the front porch. Inside, I race upstairs, to the safe
in the closet, where I punch in several combinations of numbers, with no luck. Discouraged, I take a moment to regroup and
catch my breath, which is when I remember the engraving inside my ring: 5683 .
I press the digits into the keypad—voilà—and peer inside, jaw dropping when I see the guns—these ones larger—and several bundles
of cash, each bound with a rubber band. I reach for the manila envelope on the top shelf and tear open the flap. Inside is
a stack of... passports. The first two are American—both Derrick’s, though one lists the name Greg. I shudder, flipping
through the others—Greece, Mexico, Canada—all with the same photo, but different names.
I freeze when I hear pounding on the door below—urgent, loud. I don’t remember securing the dead bolt when I came in—did I?
Hands shaking, I tuck the envelope back into the safe, securing the lock, before reaching into Derrick’s nightstand for the
small gun I discovered this morning—just in case. Hands shaking, I clutch it behind my back as I make my way downstairs, one
step at a time, my forehead coated in sweat.
“Lester, you in there?” a man shouts from the other side of the door. His voice is deep and his accent thick.
Bracing myself, I peer through the peephole. “Who is it?” I ask, my voice shaky and high-pitched.
“It’s Sal,” he says. “Tell Lester to get out here. I have words for him.”
“Uh, I’m sorry,” I say, trembling from head to toe. “He’s not... home right now.”
“You lying to me, lady?”
“No, no! I swear... he’s not here.”
The footsteps move from the front porch to the side yard, and I panic when I hear a tap on the living room window to my left,
where a large bald man is looking in at me. I scream as my body tenses. The only thing that stands between us is a couple
of panes of glass.
“Lester lied to me,” he shouts, pressing his hand against the window. “He owes me money, and I’m going to get it.”
“Please,” I say, frightened. “Derrick isn’t home. I don’t know anything about this.”
The man laughs. “I’m no dummy, miss. I’ve seen those billboards around town. I know you’re rolling in it.” He leans down,
lifting a rock from the landscaping, which he smashes against the window. I brace myself, heart racing as shards of glass
fly through the air. “A little present to remember me by.”
Acting on instinct, I pull out the gun—doing my best to steady my shaking hands as I secure my grip, pointing the barrel in
his direction.
“Whoa, whoa, lady,” he says, inching away from the window, hands in the air. “I’ll go, but you tell that scumbag husband of
yours that I’ll be back.”
I watch from the window as my would-be intruder climbs into an oversize pickup truck on the street, exhaling deeply when he drives off. Minutes pass. How many? I have no idea, but when the doorbell rings, my heart seizes. Still holding the gun, I peer through the peephole again, relieved to see a friendly face—Ellen, the woman next door.
“Lena?” she asks as I open the door. “Is everything okay? I heard shouting... glass breaking.”
I set the gun down, tears streaming down my face.
“Oh, honey,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
I shake my head, melting into her ample embrace. It feels good to be hugged—to be cared for. “A man tried to break in. He
said Derrick owed him money.”
“Should I have Bob call the police?”
“I’ll make the call,” I say, latching the dead bolt behind us. “But first, Ellen, can we talk?”
“Of course, dear,” she says, eyes wide.
We step over shards of glass in the living room. “I need to tell you something,” I begin, rubbing my forehead as she sits
on the sofa beside me. “My husband—his business—well, it may not be... legit.”
Ellen gasps. “What on earth do you mean, dear?”
“I mean that... Derrick hasn’t been honest—with any of us.” I take a deep breath. “Much of what I know about him...
I just realized... isn’t true. Anyway, whatever money you’ve given him, for whatever investment—it’s likely a sham.”
She presses her hand to her chest, taking in my words. “Dear Lord, we gave him our life savings—everything we had!”
“I’m... so sorry. Words aren’t enough, but I promise you: I’m going to do everything in my power to make it right.”
Ellen nods, obviously shell-shocked. “Lena,” she continues slowly, “how long have you known ?”
I shake my head, wondering, worrying. Maybe I became accustomed to ignoring the red flags, or, worse, just couldn’t bear to
face the truth. I exhale deeply. “I didn’t know, but it’s not an excuse—I should have—and, for that, I feel complicit.”
“No,” she says, reaching for my hand. “You’re a good person, dear. You just got wrapped up with a bad man.”
I pry a shard of glass from the edge of the sofa, longing for her words to be true. Frankly, I’m ashamed of this version of
myself: the Realtor on billboards with her pantsuits and bright smile. But if you peel back the layers, a darker picture emerges,
one I want nothing to do with.
Ellen and I sit in silence for a few minutes, each of us processing the ugly facts that have just come to light. In these
past days, I’ve trudged through the depths of loss, felt the warmth of family, friendship, and forgiveness, but also the chill
of betrayal and shame. I’ve seen the consequences of ignoring my instincts and felt the power that comes from learning to
trust myself again. I’ve come face-to-face with love—sometimes just little glimmers, other times all-out flames that, if properly
stoked, might even burn for a lifetime.
I was so broken, so lost, when I arrived at Rosie’s house seven days ago. Has it really been only a week? It feels like a
lifetime. A life sentence. I may still be broken, and more lost than ever, but there’s a force building inside of me that
wasn’t there before, a force I can only describe as knowing . I know now that there’s more to life than winning in the corporate world and following what I thought was the prescription
for the perfect life: follow the plan, advance to the next level, win the prize. Look where that got me.
“I’m... so sorry,” I say to Ellen, searching her face, overcome with emotion. I can’t stop thinking about how I got entangled
in this mess. Who we choose to partner with, to love, carries such weight. While it doesn’t define us, it does change us,
whether we like it or not. And yet, the fact remains: we get to choose—I get to choose. And I know one thing for certain,
a truth that courses through my veins right now: I do not choose this.
Ellen nods, her expression solemn. “Bob’s younger brother is an attorney. We’ll talk to him.”
I swallow hard. “I wish I—”
“One thing at a time,” she interjects with a calming smile. “Now, are you going to make the call, or shall I?”
I nod, reaching for my phone, staring at the screen for a long moment before punching in the numbers.
“This is 911, what’s your emergency?”
I take a deep breath. “Hi, my name is Lena, and I’d like to report a crime.”