Final Notice.
Two words. Seven days. That was all the time Mr. Sterling gave me before he came to take everything.
I can still feel the heat of his office from earlier this morning, the smell of stale coffee and expensive cologne cloying in the air. I had driven down to the bank in Denver before the weather turned, desperate, clutching a folder of receipts, tax returns, and 30 years of loyalty. I walked in there with my head held high, the way Robert would have wanted. I walked out feeling like I’d been gutted.
“It’s just business, Sarah,” Sterling had said. He didn’t even look up from his computer screen at first. He was a young man, sharp-suited, with soft hands that had never worked a day of hard labor in their life. He managed the accounts now, inheriting the position from old Mr. Henderson, who had shaken Robert’s hand when we bought the Midnight Haven fifteen years ago. “Your margins are non-existent. The property value, however… that has potential. Just not as a diner.”
“It’s not just a diner,” I’d pleaded, hating the wobble in my voice. “It’s a landmark. We serve truckers, travelers. During the ’08 blizzard, we housed twenty people for three days. We’ve banked with you since 1995. We’ve never missed a payment until Robert got sick.”
That was the moment. The trigger.
Sterling finally looked up, and I saw it—the sneer. It wasn’t pity; it was disdain. He leaned back in his leather chair, tapping a gold pen against his chin. “Robert is gone, Sarah. And frankly, keeping that run-down shack operating as a charity ward for transients isn’t a business model. It’s a hobby. And the bank doesn’t finance hobbies.”
He slid the foreclosure papers across the polished mahogany desk. “Seven days. Vacate the premises, or the sheriff will escort you out. We’ve already got a developer lined up. They’re going to flatten it. Put up a luxury charging station and café chain.”
