Chapter 4

Eventually, sirens wailed, and the police raided the building.

Marcus had lost half his ear and was in a coma from severe trauma.

And I, charged with excessive force and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, received a prison sentence.

In court, I didn't utter a single word of defense.

I only begged the public defender to pin every shred of liability on me, ensuring Chloe remained completely untouched by the law.

I instructed Frank to pass a message to her:

"Tell her I beat a student into a disability during an altercation at school, and that's why I'm in prison."

"Tell her that boy ran away because I threatened to kill him."

I figured it was far better for her to believe she had lost a lover to an abusive father than to live with the crushing reality that she had been scammed, abused, and left in crippling debt.

Hate brings clarity. Hate fuels ambition.

Letting her hate a monster of a father was better than letting her drown in self-loathing.

Sure enough, she bought the lie.

When she came to visit me in prison, she glared at me through the thick visitation glass, her expression utterly disgusted.

"You really are a violent psycho, Arthur Vance."

"You ruined my love life, you ruined my future, and now you managed to throw yourself behind bars."

"You make me sick."

I forced a tight smile, the movement pulling at the stitches along my cheek, sending sharp jolts of pain through my face.

"Yeah. I'm a monster, Chloe."

"No one's around to control you anymore. You go on and live your life."

"Fly far away. Fly as high as you can, and never look back."

The flood of memories receded, leaving me coughing violently in my dusty living room.

I hacked until my chest felt like it was tearing open. When I opened my trembling palm, there was a bright splash of dark blood.

On the other end of the line, Frank's voice turned frantic:

"Arthur! Arthur, what's happening? Talk to me!"

My trembling hand reached into my coat pocket, pulled out a plastic bottle of heavy-duty painkillers, and chewed three pills dry.

The bitter chalkiness spread across my tongue, pushing back the metallic taste of blood in my throat.

"I'm fine. Just swallowed some dust."

"Frank... I'm putting the house up for sale."

"Selling it?" Frank's voice shot up an octave. "That's the only roof over your head! Where the hell are you going to live?"

"With this body of mine, a ditch or a mansion makes no difference."

I looked around the barren, hollow rooms. On the flaking wall, Chloe's childhood honor roll certificates were still pinned in neat, precise rows, though faded with time.

"Chloe threw money at me today, but I didn't keep it."

"She looks successful, but building a company in the city is high-stakes. I want to sell this place and put the cash into an account for her."

"If her business ever tanks, or if life knocks her down, she'll at least have a safety net."

"Besides... with this cancer, treatments won't change the outcome anyway. No point wasting the money."

Frank fell dead silent on the other end of the line for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice broke into ragged curses:

"Arthur Vance, you are a pathetic, stubborn bastard!"

"You've bled dry for that ungrateful girl, you threw your entire life away, and does she know a damn thing?"

"Mark my words: even when you drop dead, she won't shed a single tear for you!"

I leaned my head back against the chipped paint, letting out a faint smile.

"Good. No tears is good."

"I don't ever want to see her cry."

"I want her to stay just like she is now: proud, cold, and bulletproof."

"Even if it's over my dead body."

After hanging up, I began sorting through my few belongings.

Truth be told, there wasn't much to pack: a few worn-out shirts, some old lesson plans, and a single family photograph.

Chloe was ten when we took that picture.

Back then, she had long, flowing hair and wore a little floral dress, smiling like sunshine.

I stood behind her with my usual stern, unyielding expression, but my hand was resting gently on her small shoulder.

That was the only photograph we ever took together.

Suddenly, violent banging pounded against the front door.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The force rattled the frame, as if someone wanted to tear it off its hinges.

I frowned. Nobody ever visited this run-down neighborhood anymore. Who could be knocking like that?

A debt collector?

No, the debts had been cleared years ago.

Dragging my leaden legs, I walked over and pulled the door open.

Standing on the porch was Chloe, who had returned.

Her clothes were the same, but her hair was windblown, and her eyes were rimmed with red, as though she had just been crying.

Her fiancé was nowhere to be seen.

Gripping a manila envelope, she slammed it violently against my chest.

"Cut the pathetic act, Arthur Vance!"

"What was that call I just received? Whose debt guarantor are you?!"