Liars Like Us

17

He says snippily, “I can’t give financial advice, Ms. Eastwood. I’m not an accountant.”

This guy. I swear to God, this guy is about to f**k around and find out.

“Listen to me, David. Someone has made a mistake. A huge mistake. You need to take another look and fix it.”

He turns into a robot and recites a memorized script that sounds like it came straight from the company website. “If a taxpayer disagrees with a decision regarding their liability for taxes or fees, they can dispute that decision by filing an appeal within the time limits set forth by law.”

Finally, hope! “So I can file an appeal?”

After a pause where I hear him shuffling paperwork, he comes back on the line with a smile in his voice. “Actually, no. The time limit has passed.”

Over my aggravated groan, he says, “I’ll give you my number so that you can get back to me with any questions.”

I barely have the presence of mind to write it down, but I manage it, scrawling the 800 number on the pad beside the phone before throwing the pen down in disgust.

“Goodbye, Miss Eastwood. And good luck to you.”

Sounding gleeful, he disconnects.

The prick.

It’s as I’m standing there with cold sweat trickling down my temples that I see a small white card at the bottom of the brown to-go bag I took from Callum. I reach inside and pick it up.

It’s his business card. His name, company name, and contact information are embossed on it in elegant black script.

I turn the card over to find he’s written a note on the back in printing so precise, it looks engineered.

Thank you for the pleasure of your company. Please call me if you reconsider.

Staring at the card, I whisper, “Don’t even think about it, Emery.”

I toss it into the trash can and try not to cry.

The next morning, I’m online at the shop ordering a giant Going Out of Business Sale sign to hang in the window when someone comes through the door. When I get to the front, I find a shifty-eyed young man in a blue hoodie standing near the register, looking nervous.

“Hi there. How can I help you?”

“Are you Emery Eastwood?”

Something about his energy puts me on edge. I give him a good once-over so he knows I can pick him out of a police lineup if I need to. “Yes. Why?”

He pulls a folded brown envelope out of the pocket of his hoodie and tosses it onto the counter. “You’ve been served.”

“Served? What do you mean?”

He turns around and quickly walks out the door.

I stare at the envelope with a sinking feeling in my stomach, then cross to it, rip it open, and withdraw a thick sheaf of papers.

With my heart in my throat, I scan the top page. Then I gasp.

It’s a summons.

A civil lawsuit has been brought against me by someone I’ve never heard of who claims he was injured when he tripped and fell on a damaged floor tile.

Heat floods my face and chest. My hands begin to shake. I shout, “f**k!”

Leaning my hip against the counter, I stand there trembling. How could this be happening? I’ve always made sure the store was safe for customers. And I know there’s no broken floor tile. I know every inch of this shop like the back of my hand.

I take a deep breath and force myself to focus. I need to find an attorney and figure out what my next steps are.

Except attorneys cost money.

Which is one thing I definitely don’t have.

Maybe I should sell pictures of my feet on the internet. I’ve heard there’s a market for that. Looking down at my shoes, I mull it over for a moment before I catch myself and groan.

The shop phone rings. Disoriented and upset, I lean over the counter and pick up the receiver. “Lit Happens, how may I help you?”

“Emery, honey, is that you?”

I recognize my elderly neighbor’s voice, except for one thing: the panic in it.

“Maude? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, honey, it’s awful. Just awful! Where am I supposed to go? I don’t have anybody to take me in. What will I do?”

“Maude, calm down. You’re talking so fast, I can barely understand you. What’s happened?”

She drags in a hitching breath. “Our apartment building…it’s been condemned. The police said we only have thirty minutes to pack our belongings before we have to get out!”

Someone invisible just hauled back and punched me in the throat. I make a faint sound of disbelief as all the blood drains out of my face.

“Oh! Here’s one of the nice officers now. You talk to him, honey, see if you can get him to tell you anything.”

Maude starts badgering someone in the background to take her phone. The person must decline, because she comes back on, groaning.

“Maude, please, can you tell me what happened? Why would the building be condemned? There’s nothing wrong with it!”

“Oh, I don’t know, honey. Something about repeated code violations.” She sobs quietly. “I’ve lived in that apartment for fifty years. Where will I go now? What should I do?”

A police siren somewhere in the background wails in warning before abruptly cutting off. A man shouts curses at the top of his lungs. It sounds like another neighbor, Jim, a father of three young boys who’s been unemployed for a year. His wife works the night shift at the hospital.

The only other tenant in the building, Anthony, is a sweet older man who lost his husband last year to Covid and one of his own legs to diabetes. He survives on social security and Meals on Wheels.

Now all of us are going to be out on the street.