6. Investment #2
I sat in the back of the taxi, watching the manicured lawns of my suburban neighborhood fade into the crowded streets of the urban sprawl.
Having slipped out the back door while Sylvia was engrossed in her television show, I had walked three blocks down the main avenue to flag a city cab.
It was the only way to move without tripping a notification on Marcus’s phone.
“Next left, right?” the driver asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “Just pull over at the corner.”
The car swung onto a narrow side street. The buildings here were weathered brick, their ground-floor windows protected by iron security bars.
The cab pulled to a halt against the concrete curb. I paid the fare using a folded fifty-dollar emergency bill I kept hidden inside my phone case.
I pushed the door open and stepped out onto the pavement. I stood in front of a narrow shop sandwiched between a defunct laundromat and a liquor store. A faded yellow sign hung above the door: Crown Gold and Pawn.
I walked up to the door, pushed past the iron security grate, and stepped inside. A bell clattered against the glass, announcing my arrival.
The air inside the pawn shop smelled like dust and old metal. Glass display cases lined the walls, crammed with power tools, antique watches, and tarnished silver.
A man in his late fifties stood behind the main counter, hunched over a disassembled pocket watch scattered across a rubber work mat. He wore a faded flannel shirt, and a jeweler’s loupe rested casually against his forehead.
I walked straight to the counter, the scratched glass separating us.
I reached into my purse and produced the necklace. As I settled it onto the counter, the diamond hit the scratched surface with a solid click. I had worn it to every firm dinner, letting Marcus show me off like a prized mare. Now, it was just raw material.
The pawnbroker finally looked up, glancing at me before dropping his gaze to the jewelry. He picked up a pair of metal tweezers, grabbed the platinum chain, and lifted the pendant into the harsh fluorescent light above his head.
He flipped the loupe down over his right eye.
The shop was entirely quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the antique clocks hanging on the back wall.
“Center stone is clean,” the pawnbroker muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp. “VVS1. Good color. Setting is heavy platinum.”
He rotated the pendant, examining the flat metal backing. His thick eyebrows drew together.
“It’s engraved,” he announced. He dropped the necklace back onto the glass counter, pushed the loupe up to his forehead, and looked me in the eye. “Custom engraving drops the resale value significantly. I have to melt the setting down or grind the plate. Adds labor.”
I stared at the necklace. I knew exactly what it said. To my perfect wife.
“I understand,” I replied, keeping my voice completely steady. I pushed the necklace an inch closer to his side of the counter. “Give me the cash value for the stone and the weight of the metal.”
The pawnbroker leaned his forearms against the glass. He evaluated my expensive maternity dress, my blowout, and the massive rock resting between us. He didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t offer any sympathy. He just punched a few numbers into a desktop calculator.
“Six thousand,” he offered.
I didn’t flinch. Six thousand was barely a third of what Marcus had paid for it. But Marcus’s money was a digital illusion, trapped behind passwords I didn’t have. This was real.
“Eight,” I countered. “The stone alone retails for twelve. You can grind the backing off in five minutes. Eight thousand, in cash, right now.”
Letting out a low grunt, he picked the necklace up, turning it over in his fingers one last time.
“Seven thousand.” The pawnbroker finalized, pulling open a steel drawer beneath the counter. “Take it or leave it.”
I wasn’t going to get any more, and I didn’t have a choice. I barely even had enough money for the cab ride back home. “Seven is fine,” I agreed.
Pulling out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, he counted the money out entirely by hand, slapping the crisp green notes onto the scratched glass.
He reached the final bill, tapped the stack against the glass to align the edges, and slid the pile of cash toward me.
I unzipped my purse. Without bothering to count it myself, I grabbed the stack of hundreds. The physical texture of the paper felt dirty against my palm, but the undeniable weight of it settled the frantic buzzing in my head.
It was the first time in four years I had held money that Marcus couldn’t track, monitor, or leverage against me.
I shoved the cash deep into the lining of my purse and pulled the zipper shut.
“Have a good afternoon,” the pawnbroker grunted, already turning his attention back to the disassembled pocket watch.
I turned away from the counter and walked toward the door. As I stepped back out onto the sidewalk, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped Hayes’s number. He answered on the first ring.
“Elena?”
“I have the money for a retainer,” I said, stepping off the curb and raising my hand to hail a passing yellow cab. “I need the name of a lawyer. Someone good.”
Hayes paused. Perhaps he wanted to ask how I’d gotten the money, why I hadn’t gone to him for help. But he didn’t. Like always, he allowed me my dignity.
“I’ll text you the address of a firm downtown,” Hayes offered. “I’ll meet you there.”
I ended the call, slid into the back of the taxi, and pressed my hand against the leather exterior of my purse, feeling the solid brick of cash resting against my thigh.
This was my investment in my future. Today, I’d make sure Marcus would never have any power over the baby he didn’t deserve.