She remembered her mother apologizing.
“I’m sorry, honey. Mom is working on it.”
He died two weeks before Christmas.
Pneumonia, the doctor said.
But Ethan knew the truth.
He died of poverty.
Not being able to afford to miss work when she was sick.
From not having health insurance.
From a system that devoured people like her and spat out their bones.
Then came the foster homes, the group homes, years of survival because no one was going to save him.
He built Mercer Capital from the ground up, became someone the world couldn’t ignore, and amassed more money than any one person could spend in a hundred lifetimes.
But he never forgot that apartment above the laundromat.
He never forgot his mother, apologizing for things that were not his fault.
Ethan picked up the phone and called the only person he trusted for tasks that required discretion.
“Marcus, I need you to locate a phone number right now.”
Twelve minutes later, Ethan had it all.
Clara Whitmore.
Twenty-eight years old.
Address: Apartment 4F, 1847 Sedwick Avenue, Riverdale.
Single mother.
An eight-month-old daughter.
Former accountant at Harmon Financial, laid off three months ago.
She currently works part-time as a cashier at QuickMart.
The credit report weighed heavily on her chest.
