Chapter 5: The Phone Call

Chapter 5: The Phone Call

Saturday night at The Rusty Mug was a controlled demolition. The roar of the crowd, the frantic clatter of glasses, the percussive thump of the jukebox—it was a symphony of chaos that Chloe usually conducted with effortless grace. Tonight, however, she was merely a performer in it. Her true focus was a singular point of light in the maelstrom: Billy Jean Hopkins, holding court at the far end of the bar.

The trap had been set for three days, and the waiting was a unique form of torture. With every passing hour, a sliver of doubt had tried to wedge its way into Chloe’s resolve. What if the Millers had decided it wasn’t worth the trouble? What if Billy Jean had somehow scraped together the money? But Chloe would just have to look over at Dan, moving through the shift with a quiet, bruised efficiency, and the doubt would evaporate, replaced by the cold iron of her purpose. He hadn’t mentioned the affidavit since that first night, but it hung between them, an unacknowledged ghost. That was all the fuel she needed.

Billy Jean, for her part, was blissfully unaware. She was a star in her own mind, laughing a little too loudly, her bleached hair catching the dim lights. Her phone was, as always, her favorite accessory. It sat face-up on the bar, a constant source of validation. She’d glance at it every few minutes, a flick of her eyes to check for notifications, her expression a mix of hope and her now-familiar, low-grade anxiety. Chloe knew it was the tell of a person swimming in debt, terrified of seeing the wrong name pop up on the screen.

Chloe polished a glass, her movements fluid and automatic, her eyes never leaving her target. She thought of the greasy, sprawling auto shop, of the two hulking brothers who operated on a code as old and unyielding as steel. She remembered the grim satisfaction in Hank Miller’s voice. ‘Deserves what’s coming.’ He hadn't been talking about a car. He had been passing judgment.

The moment it happened was almost anticlimactic. It wasn't a loud, dramatic ringtone. It was a cheerful, tinkling little tune that was utterly at odds with the message it carried. Billy Jean, in the middle of a flirty story with a salesman, glanced down, her face a mask of annoyance at the interruption.

Then she froze.

Chloe watched, her own heart giving a single, powerful thud. From across the busy bar, she couldn't see the screen, but she didn't need to. She saw the blood drain from Billy Jean’s face. The fake, charming smile didn't just fade; it collapsed, as if the muscles holding it up had been severed. Her eyes widened, a frantic, hunted look taking over. Her hand, which had been resting casually on the bar, began to tremble.

Annoyance had become panic. Panic was curdling into pure terror. The Millers had made their move.

“I… I have to take this,” Billy Jean stammered to the salesman, her voice suddenly thin and reedy. She snatched the phone and practically fled, stumbling past the crowded tables and shoving her way through the back door into the alley.

A few patrons glanced after her, confused by the sudden change in atmosphere, but the bar’s chaotic energy quickly swallowed the moment. Only Chloe stood perfectly still, the wet glass in her hand forgotten. A slow, cold wave of triumph washed over her. The fuse she’d lit in that greasy, intimidating workshop had finally reached the dynamite.

She counted to sixty, then calmly told Dan she needed to grab more limes from the stockroom. She walked toward the back, her steps measured, her expression neutral. The back door was still slightly ajar, and she could hear the muffled, hysterical sobs from the alley.

She let it swing shut and stepped into the cool, dark sanctuary of the stockroom. The familiar smell of stale beer and cardboard was a comfort. She leaned against a shelf of vodka bottles, the cold glass a welcome shock against her back, and waited.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket less than a minute later. The screen lit up with Billy Jean’s name.

Chloe let it buzz a second time, then a third, savoring the sound. She took a deep, centering breath, composing her voice, her thoughts, her entire being for the performance of a lifetime. Then she answered.

“Billy Jean? What’s wrong? I heard you run out.” Her voice was a perfect blend of surprise and concern.

“Chloe?” The name was a desperate, gasping sob. “Oh my god, Chloe, it’s gone! It’s gone!”

“What’s gone? Slow down, I can barely understand you.” Chloe allowed a note of urgency to creep into her tone, picturing Billy Jean in the filthy alley, her life imploding. The image was deeply satisfying.

“My car! My convertible! It’s just… gone!” she wailed. “I came out to get my purse from it and it’s not here! There’s just an empty space and this… this greasy note on the curb saying it’s been repossessed! By the Millers!”

Hook, line, and sinker. Chloe pressed a hand to her mouth, faking a gasp. “Repossessed? Oh my god, Billy Jean, no. Are you sure? Maybe it was stolen?” She offered the flimsy, hopeful lie, knowing it would make the truth land that much harder.

“No! The note had their name on it! They took it! They just… took it! How could they do that?” Her voice cracked with a pathetic blend of indignation and fear. “My whole life was in that car! How am I supposed to get to work? How am I supposed to do anything? My new apartment is forty minutes from here! I’m ruined, Chloe. I’m completely ruined!”

The raw, undiluted suffering in Billy Jean's voice was music. This was the consequence. This was the price for the lies scrawled on that affidavit, for the pain in Dan’s eyes. Chloe felt no pity. She felt a profound, chilling sense of balance, as if a great weight had been lifted from the scales of justice.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Chloe said, letting her voice tremble slightly. “That’s just… that’s unbelievable. I can’t believe anyone would be so cruel. To just leave you stranded like that.”

“I know!” Billy Jean cried, latching onto the sympathy. “Who does that? Who would be so horrible? It’s like someone told them where I lived! Like someone set me up!”

The bait was dangling right in front of her. The desire to hear her enemy in utter despair was fulfilled. Now, for the final twist of the knife. Chloe took a breath, held it for a beat, and delivered the final, perfect line, her voice dripping with flawless, counterfeit shock.

“Oh my god, Billy Jean. That’s horrible.” She paused for effect, letting the words hang in the silence between the stockroom and the alley. “I just can’t imagine who would do something like that.”