For some reason, the gesture almost broke me.
I had spent six days calculating how to protect the last thing my father left me, and my seven-year-old daughter was trying to help with a piece of fruit.
I kissed her forehead.
Then finished making breakfast.
After dropping Maya at school, I drove straight to the garage.
I called the bank again.
Requested a written explanation of the new servicing arrangement.
Asked for a full payment history.
And sent the revised demand notice to Danielle.
She called almost immediately.
“Marcus, this is wrong.”
I looked toward the letter.
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
She sounded furious.
“The original notice gave you fourteen days to respond to the default. Now a different servicing group claims there's another breach and you have five business days to provide a cure proposal.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“They said the insurance documents are inadequate.”
“Your insurance is current.”
“I know.”
“Then don't accept the allegation without making them identify exactly what they think is missing.”
I looked toward the service bay.
An old pickup waited for a brake repair.
A delivery van needed a replacement alternator.
And one of my employees was asking whether we could order a new set of diagnostic connectors.
Ordinary work.
Problems I understood.
But a bank letter was something else.
I could rebuild an engine.
I couldn't rebuild a business if somebody took away the building it operated in.
Danielle sighed.
“I'm calling a lawyer.”
“Danielle—”
“No.”
Her voice hardened.
“You've spent your whole life fixing other people's problems. Let somebody help with yours.”
Then she added something that made me close my eyes.
“And tell Vanessa.”
I didn't answer.
Danielle went quiet.
“Marcus?”
I stared toward the business card on my desk.
“Her company bought the loan.”
There was silence.
Then my sister whispered, “What?”
“Northstar Equity Partners. Some investment subsidiary.”
Danielle stopped speaking.
For several seconds, I heard only traffic outside her apartment.
Then she said, “That doesn't mean Vanessa knows.”
I laughed bitterly.
“She's the CEO.”
“Yes. Of a company with hundreds of employees and multiple investments. She doesn't personally approve every garage loan.”
I knew that.
Of course I knew it.
But knowing something intellectually didn't stop it from hurting.
I had spent the previous evening listening to Vanessa talk about being tired of people treating her like a bank account.
Now the bank account she'd helped build was apparently connected with the threat hanging over my daughter's future.