Chapter 30 – Fiona: "Let It All Burn"
Twenty minutes earlier.
Inside 2119 Wallace Street, Fiona and Veronica were sitting on the couch, chatting lazily about the one topic that seemed to dominate Fiona's thoughts these days — William.
Ever since he'd entered their lives, Fiona had felt something she hadn't felt in years — stability. For once, she believed her life might actually be heading somewhere better. She even smiled more often now, her face less hardened by exhaustion and worry.
But that illusion didn't last long.
A sharp knock at the door cut through their laughter.
When Fiona opened it, a woman in a gray suit stood outside, holding a clipboard and wearing a professional smile.
"Can I help you?" Fiona asked, still cheerful.
The woman adjusted her glasses. "Good afternoon. I'm Abby Ruggiero, from the District Attorney's office. I'm looking for a Ms. Virginia Gallagher?"
"Who?" Fiona blinked, confused.
"Virginia Louise Gallagher," Abby clarified, glancing down at her paperwork. "This is her listed address."
For a moment, Fiona just stared blankly. Then it clicked. "Oh! You mean Aunt Ginger."
Abby nodded politely. "So she does live here?"
Fiona shook her head. "No, no — she's been at a care facility in Wisconsin for years now."
That answer made Abby's eyes narrow slightly.
"I see. Ms. Gallagher, I'm an investigator working with the DA's office on Social Security fraud cases." She reached into her jacket and showed her badge. "We have reason to believe someone has been collecting your aunt's retirement checks without her authorization."
Fiona's smile froze. "Excuse me?"
Abby continued calmly, flipping a page on her clipboard. "Twelve years ago, your aunt changed her address to a local post office box here in Chicago. Since then, her benefit checks have been cashed monthly — always in this district."
"Twelve years ago?" Fiona repeated, her brow creasing. "And you're just now investigating it?"
Her tone turned defensive — a reflex born from years of chaos. "I'm sure Aunt Ginger transferred everything when she moved. You people must be behind on your paperwork."
Abby's polite smile thinned. "I see. Well then, here's what we'll do." She reached into her bag and produced an envelope.
"This is your aunt's next benefits check. I'll return tomorrow morning around ten o'clock to personally deliver it to her. If she's indeed in Wisconsin, perhaps you can arrange for her to be present so we can confirm everything in person."
Before Fiona could respond, Abby turned and walked away, leaving her standing in the doorway — confused, uneasy, a bad feeling slowly creeping into her gut.
---
Back inside, Kevin had just dropped by to see Veronica when he caught sight of Fiona's pale face.
"What's up? You look like you've seen a ghost," he said.
Fiona shook her head, still processing. "Some woman from the DA's office came by asking about Aunt Ginger. Something about her pension checks. I don't know, V… I've got a bad feeling about this."
She made her way to the living room, where Frank was — as always — sprawled across the couch like roadkill.
His leg was still in a cast, a beer bottle dangling from one hand. Every few minutes he'd take a lazy sip, grunting at the TV.
The smell alone could kill a lesser mortal.
"Unbelievable…" Fiona muttered, her temper rising. She grabbed a pillow and hurled it straight at his broken leg.
"OW! WHAT THE FUCK!" Frank jolted upright, clutching his cast. "What the hell was that for!?"
Fiona folded her arms, glaring down at him. "For being you, Frank. We need to talk."
Frank blinked dumbly for a moment, his alcohol-fogged brain trying to process why his leg suddenly hurt so much — until the pain snapped him back to reality.
"Where's Aunt Ginger, Frank?" Fiona's voice was sharp, trembling with fury.
"What?" Frank squinted up at her, confused.
"Dad," Fiona said, her patience hanging by a thread, "is Aunt Ginger still living in Wisconsin?"
The noise downstairs had caught Lip's attention. He paused his Bitcoin tinkering upstairs, listening in.
Frank took another long swig from his bottle before answering, "That's what I told you, isn't it? Why're you asking about Ginger all of a sudden?"
"Because a fraud investigator just came by!" Fiona snapped. "She said someone's been collecting Aunt Ginger's Social Security checks — in Chicago!"
For a moment, Frank froze. Then, with that familiar fake sincerity plastered across his face, he gasped dramatically.
"Ginger's back in Chicago? And she didn't even call me? After everything I've done for her?"
Veronica and Kevin exchanged a look. Everyone who knew Frank could tell — he was lying through his rotten teeth.
"Oh, holy hell…" Kevin muttered, trying not to laugh. "You've been cashing her checks, haven't you, Frank?"
That got a rise out of him. "I earned that money!" Frank declared, gesturing wildly with his beer. "Do you know how much I did for that woman? She owed me!"
Fiona didn't even want to hear it. Her voice was cold now.
"Fine. Then you'd better figure out how to make this right. Because tomorrow morning at ten, that investigator's coming back — and Aunt Ginger better be standing in front of her. Otherwise, you can kiss those checks goodbye for good."
She turned to storm off, but Frank panicked.
"Wait! Fiona! Hold on!"
She spun around, eyes blazing. "What now?"
"I can't exactly travel in my current condition!" he said, gesturing to his broken leg. "We… we'll just have to find someone to pretend to be your Aunt Ginger."
"Excuse me?" Fiona's voice went cold. "Why would we—"
"Damn it!" Frank winced as he tried to sit up, his leg protesting in pain. He hesitated, then sighed. Even he knew there was no talking his way out of this.
"Kevin," he grunted, "you mind lending me your car tonight? I'll drive up to Wisconsin, bring Ginger back myself."
But Fiona cut him off sharply. "Forget it. I'll handle this — just tell me where she really is."
Frank hesitated. Then, with an awkward cough, muttered, "She's… not in Wisconsin."
The air went still.
Fiona frowned. "Then where is she?"
Frank took another swig of beer. "She's dead."
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
Fiona stared at him, unable to process it. "What did you just say?"
"She's been dead for… twelve years," Frank said, voice quiet but utterly unbothered. "It was… an accident."
"TWELVE YEARS?!" Fiona screamed. "You mean to tell me — all this time — you've been stealing her pension? Do you even realize that's a federal crime!?"
Her voice shook. "We're living in her house, Frank! She didn't leave a will, did she? Did she!?"
Frank shifted uncomfortably, still pretending this wasn't a big deal. "Technically, if she's not legally declared dead, there's no need for a will."
"Jesus Christ," Fiona whispered, pressing a hand to her temple. The room seemed to spin.
Her father. Her family. Everything she'd been holding together — just one more lie away from collapsing.
She turned and stumbled toward the door, shaking. "I can't… I can't do this," she muttered.
"Fiona, wait! Don't walk away!" Frank called after her.
But she was already outside, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. Her breath came ragged, eyes glassy with exhaustion and disgust.
The smoke burned in her lungs, but it was the only thing keeping her from screaming.
How much more? she thought. How much more of this am I supposed to take?
Her hands shook as she reached for her phone. There was only one person she could think to call.
She scrolled to his number.
Pressed it.
When the line connected, her voice was low, shaking, almost breaking.
"William," she whispered, "I need you."