Some goodbyes are soft, a gentle fading like the last notes of a lullaby. Others are a door slamming shut, the kind that rattles the whole house. Burying my brother, Adam, on a Tuesday afternoon while a cold November rain soaked through my thin black dress felt like the house was burning down around me.
I stood there, staring at the polished wood of the casket, and felt nothing. The space in my chest where my heart was supposed to be was just a hollow, aching cavern. I'd run out of tears hours ago, maybe even days. All that was left was this bone-deep exhaustion, a weariness that settled into my soul and refused to leave.
The last time I saw him alive, he'd shown up at my door, his eyes wide and frantic. He'd looked over his shoulder a dozen times, his hands shaking as he gripped my arms. *"Take care of Mia if anything happens to me, El. Promise me."* I'd brushed it off as another one of his dramatic episodes, another cry for help I didn't know how to answer. I didn't understand then. Now, the memory was a knife twisting in my gut.
The funeral was small. Pathetically so. Adam had burned through friends like he'd burned through money, leaving a trail of broken promises and disappointed faces. His ex-wife, Sarah, stood on the other side of the grave, holding their four-year-old daughter, Mia. Her face was a mask of tired resentment. I couldn't blame her.
Mia, my sweet, innocent niece, pointed a tiny finger at the casket being lowered into the earth. "Mommy, why is Uncle Adam sleeping in the box?"
Sarah's face crumpled, and she pulled Mia tighter against her hip, burying her face in her daughter's hair. The words caught in my throat, thick and useless. How do you explain a drug overdose to a four-year-old? How do you tell her that her father, my baby brother, had made a series of terrible choices that led him to a cold, lonely end in a cheap motel room?
You don't. You just stand there while your own heart shatters into a million more pieces.
The priest offered me some generic, mumbled condolences about God's plan. I wanted to scream at him. What kind of plan was this? A plan where a 23-year-old kindergarten teacher has to bury the little brother she practically raised? I knew Adam was struggling, that the addiction had its claws in him deep. But I thought he was getting better. He'd promised me he was.
A wave of guilt so strong it nearly buckled my knees washed over me. I should have done more. I should have seen how scared he was. I should have forced him into rehab, dragged him there myself if I had to. I should have saved him. But I didn't. And now he was gone.
My small apartment felt cavernous and silent when I got back. The air was thick with the scent of lilies from the single bouquet a neighbor had sent, a smell I now associated with death. I kicked off my heels and sank onto the worn-out couch, the silence pressing in on me.
I'm a kindergarten teacher. My world is finger paints, nap time, and scraped knees. I live paycheck to paycheck, my savings account a joke before the funeral expenses had drained it completely. Now, I was truly, utterly broke.
Alone in the quiet, the numbness finally cracked. A sob tore its way out of my chest, raw and ugly. I grabbed the old, faded hoodie of Adam's that I kept on the back of the couch and buried my face in it, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of him. The tears came then, hot and furious, a storm of grief and anger and guilt that I couldn't control. I cried for the boy he used to be, for the man he never got to become, and for the gaping hole he'd left in my life.
I must have cried myself to sleep, because the next thing I knew, a loud, aggressive knocking echoed through the apartment.
*Bang. Bang. Bang.*
My head shot up, my heart instantly pounding against my ribs. It was dark outside. A glance at my phone showed it was just after 9 PM. I wasn't expecting anyone. My friends knew I wanted to be alone.
*Bang. Bang. BANG.*
This wasn't a friendly knock. It was demanding, impatient. A knot of fear tightened in my stomach. Who knocks like that?
I crept to the door, my bare feet silent on the cheap laminate flooring. My hand trembled as I reached for the peephole. On the other side of my door stood two men. They were huge, built like brick walls and stuffed into identical, ill-fitting dark suits. They weren't cops. Their faces were hard, their eyes cold and empty. Everything about them screamed danger.
My first instinct was to pretend I wasn't home, to hold my breath and pray they'd go away. But the knocking came again, harder this time, rattling the door in its frame.
"Miss Martins. Open the door. We need to talk." The voice was low and gravelly, a command, not a request.
My blood ran cold. They knew my name.
With a shaking hand, I unlatched the deadbolt but kept the chain on. I opened the door a few inches, a sliver of metal the only thing protecting me. "Who are you? What do you want?"
The man who had spoken didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "We're representatives of an organization your brother was involved with." He didn't wait for an invitation. With a single, firm push, the chain snapped from the flimsy doorframe and the door swung inward.
I stumbled back as they entered my apartment, their sheer size seeming to shrink the small space. They moved with an unnerving confidence, their eyes scanning everything before they settled on my couch and sat down as if they owned the place. I was left standing in the middle of my living room, my heart hammering against my ribs, feeling like a terrified mouse cornered by two very large, very predatory cats.
"What is this?" I managed to squeak out, wrapping my arms around myself. "What do you want?"
The first man leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on his knees. "Your brother, Adam, owed our organization money. A lot of money."
I stared at him, my mind struggling to process his words. It felt like he was speaking a different language. "Money? What are you talking about?"
"He borrowed from us," the second man said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Over the past year. It added up."
"How much?" I whispered, dread coiling in my stomach.
The first man's lips twisted into something that might have been a smirk. "Two million dollars."
The number hit me like a physical blow. I laughed, a hysterical, broken sound. "Two million? That's impossible. Adam didn't have that kind of money to borrow! He was broke."
"He was desperate," the man corrected. "Gambling debts, a few bad business ideas he was sure would pay off. He was very convincing." He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a sheaf of papers, tossing them onto my coffee table. "These are copies of the loan agreements. All signed by him."
I stared at the documents, at the familiar, messy scrawl of my brother's signature at the bottom of each page. My world tilted on its axis. This couldn't be real. My brother, the goofy, sweet boy I grew up with, involved with criminals? Borrowing millions of dollars? It didn't make sense.
"I... I don't understand," I stammered, shaking my head. "He's... he's gone. He died."
"We're aware," the second man said, his tone bored. "But when someone dies, their debt doesn't just disappear. It transfers." He paused, his cold eyes locking onto mine. "To family."
Panic, sharp and suffocating, clawed at my throat. "No. No, you can't... I'm a teacher! I don't have two million dollars! I have three thousand dollars in my bank account, that's it!"
The first man shrugged, completely unmoved. "Not our problem." He stood up, looming over me. "Our boss doesn't like loose ends. He's a very... tidy person. He wants this settled."
"How?" I cried, my voice cracking. "How am I supposed to settle a two-million-dollar debt?"
"You have 48 hours to come up with a solution," he said simply.
My mind went blank with terror. "And if I can't?" I whispered, already knowing the answer was something I didn't want to hear.
The man's cold expression shifted, and a chilling smile spread across his face. "You don't want to know." His gaze drifted from me to the small collection of photos on my bookshelf. He picked one up. It was a picture of me and Mia at the park, both of us grinning, ice cream smeared on our faces.
"Cute kid," he said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone. "Your niece?"
The implication hung in the air, thick and poisonous. It wasn't a question. It was a threat. They wouldn't just come after me. They would hurt Mia. My sweet, innocent Mia, who had already lost her father. A wave of nausea and pure, undiluted terror washed over me. I felt sick.
The man placed the photo back on the shelf, his movements deliberate and slow. He pulled a business card from his pocket and set it on the table next to the loan documents. It was stark white, with nothing but a single phone number printed in black. No name, no company.
"Call this number when you're ready to discuss solutions," he said. "Our boss is expecting to hear from you." He and his partner turned and walked to the door. He paused in the doorway, looking back at me, my small, trembling form in the middle of the room.
"48 hours, Miss Martins. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
And then they were gone.
I stood frozen for a long moment before my legs gave out. I slid down the wall to the floor, my body shaking uncontrollably. The business card lay on the table, a tiny white rectangle holding my entire future hostage.
My mind raced, a chaotic whirlwind of fear and disbelief. How did this happen? How could Adam have gotten himself into this kind of trouble? And how in God's name was I supposed to save myself, to save Mia, from people who could make a two-million-dollar debt appear out of thin air?
My eyes landed on a photo of Adam on the wall, one from years ago, before the darkness had taken hold. He was smiling, his arm slung around my shoulders. Grief and anger churned inside me, a bitter, toxic cocktail.
"What did you do, Adam?" I whispered to the empty room. "What the hell did you do?"
I buried my brother on Tuesday. By Thursday, I'd learn that his death wasn't enough to pay his debts. And now, those debts were mine.
_____
What would you do if your life.. and your loved ones.. were held hostage by a debt you never owed?