Second, Martin Holloway. “Be at the Carter residence at ten. Bring the termination paperwork.”
Third, the bank holding the hidden third mortgage on my parents’ house—a mortgage they had quietly taken out to pay Tyler’s gambling debts. I had bought that note months before through one of my companies. “Call it due. Three days to vacate.”
Fourth, the Bugatti dealership.
At 9:45, I slid into the driver’s seat of a matte black Bugatti Chiron Super Sport and headed toward the suburbs.
The car announced itself before I ever turned onto their street. Not loud in the cheap, obnoxious way. Loud in the way thunder is loud—deep, expensive, unmistakable.
When I rolled up, my father, mother, Tyler, and Martin Holloway were standing on the lawn talking. My father was mid-story, all animated hands and eager posture. Tyler was checking his phone. My mother was wearing her social smile.
Then the Bugatti stopped at the curb.
The neighborhood went silent.
People came out onto porches. Lawn equipment stopped. A kid on a bike nearly tipped over staring.
Tyler spoke first.
“Oh my God. That’s a Bugatti.”
My father was already moving toward the car, hand outstretched.