By the time my brother’s car vanished from his driveway at 9:05 that morning, my purse was already dry. The leather was ruined, the lining warped and rippled from chlorine, my wallet stiff as cardboard. I’d spent the previous evening laying everything out on my kitchen table—credit cards, receipts, my daughter Hannah’s Polaroid of us at the zoo—watching them slowly dry under the fluorescent light while I made a decision that would change everything.
The first text from Josh came just before nine: “Hey, did u move my car payment??”
No “good morning,” no “happy belated birthday,” no “sorry about last night.” Just the immediate assumption that I’d done something wrong. I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard, then set the phone face down and went back to salvaging what I could from the soggy remains of my life. When the second text came—”Wtf.
Where’s my car, Nikki???”—I didn’t even look. I already knew what was happening. The repo truck.
The metal arms sliding under the wheels. The slow, inevitable lift. My brother waking up to an empty driveway and the sudden realization that his safety net had a bottom after all.
My name is Nicole, though everyone calls me Nikki. I’m thirty-six, divorced, living in a quiet Denver suburb with my twelve-year-old daughter Hannah. I’m the type of person neighbors call when they need a ride to the airport at 4 a.m., the one who remembers birthdays and brings casseroles when someone’s in the hospital.
I’m steady. Reliable. The one who keeps everyone else afloat.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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