Chapter 3 - ZERO DOLLARS
I did not answer another question.
That may have been the smartest thing I did all week.
“I have counsel.”
Not exactly.
I had a business card.
The man on the phone went quiet.
Then:
“Miss Brennan, there’s no need to involve—”
I hung up.
My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the phone.
Then I called Evelyn Park.
At 1:32 a.m.
I expected voicemail.
She answered on the third ring.
“This is Evelyn.”
“My name is Eliza Brennan.”
Pause.
Then sharper:
“Are you safe?”
Good first question.
“I think so.”
“Where are you?”
“My apartment.”
“Is anyone there?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
I told her.
Unknown number.
Harrington Patient Accounts.
My mother’s file.
The call.
Evelyn said:
“Do not call the number back.”
“I know.”
“Screenshot the call log.”
“Yes.”
“Forward nothing yet. I’ll send a secure upload link.”
“Okay.”
“Did you give Adriano your phone number?”
“No.”
“Hotel has it?”
“Probably.”
“Hospital definitely does through your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Then we do not assume who called.”
Evidence.
Good.
My pulse slowed one degree.
Evelyn continued.
“I need your mother’s authorization before I review her patient-specific billing documents.”
“She’ll sign.”
“Ask her in the morning.”
“My mother has chemo at eight.”
“Then do not wake her because a stranger wanted to frighten you.”
The word.
Frighten.
“You think that’s what it was?”
“I think one-thirty in the morning is not a normal patient-accounts call.”
Fair.
“Should I call police?”
“For the call alone, document first. If you receive threats, stalking, or anyone appears at your home, call immediately.”
Good.
No drama.
“Do I tell Adriano?”
“I will notify the audit committee of a possible contact event. You do not need to manage him.”
That sentence surprised me.
Manage him.
As if dangerous men were weather.
“Thank you.”
“Try to sleep.”
I laughed.
“Sure.”
I did not sleep.
At 6:15, I took the subway to my mother’s apartment in Astoria.
Carol Brennan opened the door wearing a head scarf covered in tiny yellow lemons.
She had lost most of her hair during the second cycle.
She pretended the scarves were fashion.
I pretended with her.
“Eliza?”
“I need to talk before we go.”
Her face changed.
“Is it work?”
“No.”
“Rent?”
“No.”
“Electric?”
I stared.
She knew.
Mothers know unpaid bills through walls apparently.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Did Harrington ever tell you how much charity assistance you received?”
She frowned.
“No. They said substantial.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“Whatever the social worker gave me.”
“Do you have copies?”
“In the blue folder.”
Of course.
Mom had folders for everything.
Blue medical.
Green insurance.
Red taxes.
She believed color coding could stop death.
Maybe I inherited the desire to impose order.
We opened blue.
There it was.
Same grant confirmation.
Sixty-eight thousand.
Mom stared.
“What is this?”
“You never saw the amount?”
“No.”
“Look at the bottom.”
Patient responsibility:
$0.
Her face went blank.
Then she looked toward the kitchen counter.
Three bills.
Together:
$21,406.
Not only my fourteen-thousand notice.
Mom had hidden two smaller ones.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looked guilty.
“Eliza.”
“Why?”
“You already work too much.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m paying them.”
“Some.”
“With what?”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“Credit card.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much?”
“Five thousand.”
I stood.
Anger needed movement.
“Mom.”
“I was going to manage it.”
“With twenty-two-percent interest?”
“Don’t use your finance voice.”
“I don’t have a finance voice.”
“You absolutely do.”
I wanted to scream.
Instead I sat again.
Both of us hiding money problems to protect the other.
Excellent family system.
“I need you to sign authorization for a lawyer.”
Mom stared.
“What lawyer?”
I told her.
Not everything about Adriano.
Enough.
Gala.
Grant audit.
Duplicate billing.
Late-night call.
Her face went white.
“You talked to Costello?”
“Yes.”
“Eliza.”
“He talked to me.”
“That is not better.”
“Probably not.”
“You know who he is.”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
No.
Not really.
Public stories.
Whispers.
A man on a balcony who put his cigarette in the proper receptacle.
A mafia boss who knew my mother’s grant before I did.
Contradictions.
“I know enough to be careful.”
Mom grabbed my hand.
“Quit the hotel.”
“I don’t work for him.”
“You served him.”
“One gala.”
“Still.”
Fear.
Real.
I squeezed her hand.
“The lawyer is independent from him.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be.”
Good.
Mom signed.
Then we went to chemo.
No black cars.
No watchers.
No sudden violence.
Just fluorescent lights and warm blankets.
Normal terrible life.
At 10:20, Evelyn called.
“Authorization received.”
“Good.”
“Your mother’s grant file contains something unusual.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Two application versions.”
“What does that mean?”
“One signed by your mother.”
“Yes.”
“Another uploaded six days later with altered income figures and a different mailing address.”
I stopped.
“Different how?”
“The second version makes her look eligible for a larger emergency-assistance category.”
“Why would that matter if the fund already approved her?”
“Because Harrington billed the Costello Foundation under the larger category.”
I understood.
“They inflated the grant.”
“Potentially.”
“How much?”
“Your mother’s original assistance recommendation was forty-two thousand.”
“But they requested sixty-eight.”
“Yes.”
“Then billed us—her—the rest anyway.”
“Possibly.”
Fraud both ways.
Steal from donor.
Bill patient.
One cancer treatment monetized twice.
Maybe three times if insurance paid too.
“Insurance?”
Evelyn paused.
“We are checking.”
My stomach turned.
“Who uploaded the altered application?”
“User account: Dana Rusk.”
“Who is that?”
“Harrington Foundation Services manager.”
I wrote it down.
“Do we know if she did it?”
“No.”
Good.
Credentials.
Not person.
“Could Vanessa access that account?”
“I don’t know.”
“Victor DeLuca?”
“Board chair, not system operator.”
“Then who?”
“We investigate.”
Again.
Slow.
Correct.
I hated it.
At noon, Mom slept through infusion.
I went to the cafeteria for coffee.
Someone sat across from me before I finished opening the sugar.
Adriano.
I nearly spilled the cup.
“How did you—”
He lifted both hands slightly.
Not touching.
“Evelyn told me you were at Harrington.”
“That was private.”
“She told the audit committee counsel was meeting a patient representative here. She did not give me your mother’s treatment details.”
“You guessed.”
“Yes.”
“That is not comforting.”
“No.”
He looked tired.
No suit jacket.
Dark shirt.
Scar brighter under hospital lights.
“Why are you here?”
“Board meeting.”
“Harrington?”
“Yes.”
“Because of the audit?”
“Partly.”
“Victor DeLuca?”
“Attending.”
My stomach tightened.
“Does he know about Mom?”
“Not from me.”
“Does he know a patient representative met counsel?”
“Likely.”
“Then you sitting here makes me visible.”
He went still.
Good.
He looked around.
Public cafeteria.
Hospital staff.
Donors.
Anyone could see us.
“You’re right.”
He stood.
That surprised me.
“I’ll leave.”
“Wait.”
He stopped.
I hated myself.
“What happened at the board meeting?”
“Not finished.”
“Then?”
“I left when Evelyn told me about the duplicate application.”
“You left a board meeting?”
“Yes.”
“To find me?”
His face changed.
“That was a mistake.”
Good.
He saw it.
“Why did you?”
He sat only after I pointed at the chair.
Progress.
“I was angry.”
“At me?”
“No.”
“At them.”
“Yes.”
“You came to make sure I was okay.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It isn’t?”
“It could become leverage.”
His eyes sharpened.
I continued.
“If every time I uncover something, you appear, pay something, move someone, protect someone—then suddenly I’m inside your system.”
Adriano leaned back.
“That is not what I want.”
“Do you know?”
Silence.
Good.
He looked toward the cafeteria window.
“I’m used to solving threats around people I care about.”
My heartbeat stumbled.
“People you care about?”
He looked back.
“Poor phrasing.”
“Very.”
“I meant people involved in matters I’m responsible for.”
Better.
Less flattering.
More honest.
“Then let Evelyn handle the audit.”
“Yes.”
“And hospital security handles hospital safety.”
“Yes.”
“And I handle my mother.”
He paused.
“Within reason.”
I stared.
He corrected.
“Yes.”
Good.
Then:
“Why did patient accounts call me at one-thirty?”
His face hardened.
“What?”
Evelyn had not told him details.
Good.
I explained.
He did not stand.
Did not call Marco.
Did not become a movie.
He said:
“Did you give the number to Evelyn?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
There it was.
I almost smiled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He looked suspicious.
Then my phone buzzed.
Mom’s nurse.
Infusion ending early.
I stood.
Adriano did too.
“Goodbye.”
“Eliza.”
I waited.
“Vanessa is not involved in the audit committee.”
“Okay.”
“She asked this morning why a server from the gala was meeting foundation counsel.”
My skin went cold.
“How did she know?”
“I asked her.”
“You asked her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she handles donor communications and staff complaints from the gala.”
I closed my eyes.
“You made the connection for her.”
His face changed.
Yes.
The feared Adriano Costello had made a simple information mistake.
Not because he was stupid.
Because powerful people assume questions are private when others fear them.
“She knows my name.”
“Yes.”
“She knows my mother is a patient?”
“I did not say that.”
“But she can find the gala staffing record.”
“Possibly.”
I stared.
“You need to leave.”
He nodded.
No defense.
“I’m sorry.”
“Go.”
He went.
I stood in the cafeteria shaking.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
A text this time.
YOU SHOULD HAVE TAKEN THE TRIPLE PAY AND KEPT SMILING.
My blood went cold.
A second message arrived.
ASK YOUR MOTHER WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LAST WOMAN WHO QUESTIONED HARRINGTON.
I stopped breathing.
My mother.
Not me.
May you like
The message implied she knew something.
And I had no idea what.
