The evening before the big fight, when we all learned Francis had been cheating on Romi, it was my turn to cook dinner. I’d planned a feast—Romi had been in such a wonderful mood lately, and I wanted to do anything I could to keep it that way. When she and Tam were working well together, everything in our group was working well together.
We left Agloe, and the rest of them dropped me off at home to get started and carried on to Rockland to replenish our wine supply. I was dicing onions, garlic, tomatoes, and mushrooms for spaghetti when I heard their car pull back in.
“That was fast,” I said, opening the door.
But it wasn’t our old Volkswagen.
And it wasn’t them.
It was a much newer, sleeker car, with tinted windows. Two middle-aged men I’d never seen before were in the front seats, in dark, conservative suits.
Debt collectors from the vacation rental company.
“Humphrey Turan?” the first one asked as they climbed out of the car.
“Sorry,” I said, stepping back through the door.
The men moved calmly up the drive. “Mr. Turan, stop.”
The screen door banged shut, and I reached for the solid one behind it. “The stove is on, I have to go.”
“We’ve been trying to reach you, but you haven’t returned any of our messages, via mail or phone,” the first man continued as the slab of wood slammed closed between us, ignoring my excuse entirely. “You’ve left us no choice but to come in person.”
I knew it was true. The rental company had started with the mail, sending me threatening letter after threatening letter, but when that hadn’t worked, the calls had begun. After a few weeks, I was so exhausted from leaping up at the first ring to grab the phone before anyone else, I’d secretly unplugged the cord. Even then, I’d known it was only a matter of time before they’d start showing up in person—but somehow it was still a surprise that it was finally, finally happening.
“This is serious, Mr. Turan,” the other said.
This was it. They’d come to evict us.
“You have to open the door,” the first man added, knocking again.
I turned the lock and put my head against the wood. I thought that maybe if I waited long enough, they’d get tired and go.
“We’re not going anywhere,” the first continued, in an almost bored, expectant way—they probably went through this every time. “Not until you talk to us.”
My eyes slid to the window. In the falling light, I could still make out the lazy curve of the highway, up which Daniel would be driving the rest of them, wine in tow. Back here, where they were expecting to find dinner waiting.
Instead, they were going to see the debt collectors’ car and their ominous silhouettes lurking at our door, threatening to throw us out. They would know how much trouble I was in, and how far I’d gone to hide it.
Or, even worse, maybe the men would leave before the others returned—but then they’d come back. Because men like these always came back. And if they did when we were all in Agloe, they might let themselves inside the house. I didn’t really know the laws, but as delinquent on the rent as I was, the place might not even be mine anymore, contractually. It was one thing if I was physically inside, but if all they had to do was show up when the house was empty . . . the owner probably had even already given them a key, by now.
And if they did go inside, if they saw our notes, what we’d been working on . . .
If they tried to reach Agloe on their own, or told the rental company about their findings, if the news got out . . .
I had no plan, but I had to say something to buy some time. I opened the wooden door just a crack. “Give me a week,” I said.