“They’re from a private recovery agency,” Martha said, and I could hear her tapping her reading glasses against something hard on her desk. “The bank hired them to verify assets. Claire, Dad’s commercial credit line was shut down three weeks ago for non-payment.”
“That’s impossible,” I said, leaning against my wooden workbench. “Dad sold the commercial park last year. He has the consulting contract with the township.”
“He doesn’t have anything,” Martha said, her voice dry but thin. “They are hiding something massive, Claire. They haven’t made a mortgage payment on the condo in four months. The bank is preparing the paperwork.”
“What paperwork?” I asked, my chest tightening.
“Foreclosure,” Martha said. “If they don’t settle the outstanding arrears by November fourteenth at ten in the morning, the property goes to auction. That’s only weeks away.”
“How much do they owe?” I asked.
“More than they can borrow,” Martha said. “Don’t tell Mom I called you. If Richard finds out I leaked this from the credit department, I’ll lose my license.”
“But Dad must have the cash from the land sale,” I said.
“The land sale was five years ago, Claire,” Martha said. “The money is gone.”
The line went dead before I could ask her about the certified letter Jordan had received that morning, leaving only the dull hum of the dial tone.
By nine in the evening, the house was dark except for the single lamp beside the sofa in our living room. Jordan was sitting in his armchair, his silver drafting scale balanced between his fingers, turning the triangular metal ruler over and over in the low light.
I stood by the doorway, my hands tucked into the pockets of my cardigan, watching the metal catch the yellow glow of the lamp.
“Martha called me today,” I said.
Jordan did not look up from the scale. “How is she?”
“She says Dad is in trouble with the bank,” I said. “She says the commercial recovery department is looking into their condo.”
“Your father has lived on credit since nineteen ninety-two,” Jordan said, his voice entirely calm. “It was only a matter of time before the collateral ran out.”
“You knew,” I said, stepping into the room. “The letter this morning. The invoice on your desk. Why is Oak Ridge Bank sending you paperwork about my parents’ debt, Jordan?”
