Chapter 8 - The Confrontation
At 8:00 p.m., as rain began to melt the remaining snow outside, I received a phone call from an unknown number on my private line.
I answered it, placing it on speaker.
"Clara..." Ray’s voice came through the speaker, raspy, broken, and hollow. He was calling from a payphone near the bus station. "Please... Clara... stop this. They're going to kill us."
I sat in my hotel armchair, sipping my tea, watching the rain streak down the glass window. "Who is going to kill you, Ray?"
"Victor Vance!" Ray wept frantically, sound of traffic rushing past in the background. "He took the car! He took everything! Daniel’s nose is broken, Clara! He’s bleeding in an alley behind the station! We don't have anywhere to go! We don't have food! It’s freezing!"
"Fascinating," I said softly. "It seems karma has an extraordinary sense of timing."
"Clara, I'm begging you!" Ray sobbed, his voice cracking with absolute desperation. "I'll sign whatever you want! I'll give up all claims to the house! I'll sign a full confession! Just give us enough money to get out of the state! Please! I'm your stepfather!"
"You were never my father, Ray," I said, my tone as steady as mountain granite. "My father was a noble man who sacrificed everything for his family. You were a parasite who wore a suit."
"What do you want from us?!" Daniel’s voice suddenly screamed into the receiver, grabbing the phone from Ray. "You've ruined our lives, Clara! Everyone knows what we did! We can't get a job! We can't go anywhere! Are you happy now?!"
I listened to my younger brother’s hysterical screams—the brother who had smirked at me in the hospital ER twenty-four hours ago, the brother who had thrown my mother’s shoes into a dumpster.
"I am not happy, Daniel," I said softly. "Happiness requires emotional investment. What I feel right now is simply balance."
"Please, Clara..." Daniel whimpered, his bravado instantly evaporating into pathetic sobs. "It’s cold... my foot hurts... I don't have shoes..."
I froze for a long second, letting the irony of his words fill the silence of the phone line.
"You don't have shoes, Daniel?" I asked quietly.
"No... Victor’s men took my sneakers..."
"How poetic," I whispered. "My mother didn't have shoes either when you dumped her at the East Gate. Remember how cold the concrete felt?"
"Clara, please—"
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"The police have your location tracked through that payphone cell tower, Daniel," I said calmly. "They will be there in two minutes to execute the felony arrest warrants. You can spend tonight in a heated county jail cell. Consider it a mercy."
I hung up the phone before he could answer.
