One Late Fee Too Far

The wind hit my face like knives, bits of ice stinging my skin.

I was in a tailored suit and stilettos. Didn't care how I looked as I rushed into the recovery center's fancy lobby.

The heat blasted inside, thick and suffocating.

A few nurses at the front desk were snacking, chatting. They froze when I came in.

I ignored them and headed straight for the manager's office.

Inside, Winnie sat in a wide leather chair.

Her designer suit fit like trash—loud and off. She held a small mirror, carefully swiping on bright red lipstick.

I burst in. Her hand jerked. The lipstick dragged crooked across her mouth.

"Who do you think you are? Ever heard of knocking?" She shot up, slammed the mirror down, and pointed at me. "This is the manager's office at Cloudemont Retreat, not a street market."

I walked up and slammed both hands on her desk. My eyes locked on hers, voice ice-cold.

"Where is Maya Keyne?"

She paused, eyes dragging over me. The flicker of panic vanished—replaced by pure contempt.

"Oh, Ms. Keyne." She eased back into her chair, grabbed a tissue, and wiped the lipstick off the corner of her mouth. "Did you bring enough money?"

"I did. Now get Maya back."

I was still catching my breath as I pulled a black-and-gold card from my bag and slapped it on the desk.

"Run it. Put fifty grand on it. Send every caregiver you've got to find her. Now."

"I understand you're anxious, but we have procedures."

She glanced at the card, then back at me, eyes taunting.

"Per our new policy at Cloudemont, renewals require a new service contract. No signed contract, no payment. It's to prevent certain family members from making false claims later."

"Fine. A contract." I swallowed it down, chest heaving. "Bring it. I'll sign."

If it got the staff out there—got Maya back inside, warm, on oxygen—I could take a few minutes of this.

Once she was safe, I'd make this woman—and the director—learn what hell felt like.

"What's the rush? If you want to sign, I'll have to draft it."

She saw how desperate I was. It lit something ugly in her eyes.

She slowed on purpose, turned to her computer, and took her time.