Chapter 11 - The Eviction at Sycamore Glen
When I arrived back at Westbrook Heights at five o'clock that evening, the autumn dusk was already settling over the neighborhood.
The manicured lawns of Sycamore Glen were quiet. Streetlamps flickered to life, casting long, dramatic shadows across the facade of our four-bedroom house.
Parked in the driveway was Diane’s silver Lexus, its trunk popped open.
Scattered across the bluestone front walkway were three large Samsonite suitcases, two garment bags, and several cardboard moving boxes.
Diane was in the middle of dragging a heavy vanity mirror through the front door when my Audi pulled up to the curb.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
She looked haggard. Her expensive cashmere cardigan was stained with sweat, her hair was completely wild, and her eyes were manic with panic. She looked like a woman who had spent the last four hours watching her house burn down on a live security feed.
I got out of the car, closed the door, and walked up the bluestone path, stepping around her suitcases.
"Going somewhere, Diane?" I asked pleasantly.
Diane dropped the heavy mirror onto the grass with a dull *thud*. She pointed a trembling, manicured finger at me, her chest heaving with ragged breaths.
"Brandon called me," she choked out, her voice raw and hoarse. "He told me what you did at Mercer Tower. You had him fired! You had him dragged out by security like a common criminal!"
"Brandon had himself fired," I replied, pausing at the base of the front steps. "He embezzled sixty-four thousand dollars in company funds and lied to the daughter of the man who signed his paychecks. I simply provided the documentation."
"He was building our family legacy!" Diane shrieked, her voice echoing down the quiet suburban street. A curtain twitched in the window of the Henderson house across the way. "He was making sure his mother was provided for! What kind of monster destroys her own husband's career over some hurt feelings and an empty plate?"
"The kind of monster who doesn't like being robbed of three hundred and ten thousand dollars," I said, my voice cutting through her screeching like a razor.
Diane took two frantic steps toward me, her hands clawing the air. "You think you won? You think this is over? Oak & Stone still owns that Dayton property! We have six tenants paying rent every month! Brandon will find another sales job, and we will take that building and turn it into a goldmine! You will never see a single dollar from that property, Claire! Not one red cent!"
I pulled a crisp legal document from my purse and held it up between us.
It was a certified Notice of Default and Commercial Loan Acceleration, bearing the embossed seal of Apex Bridge Capital and the signature of Raymond Thorne.
"Read the header, Diane," I said softly.
Diane snatched the paper from my hand, her eyes darting across the lines of legal text.
Her breath stopped.
"Apex... accelerated the note?" she whispered, her voice shrinking to a tiny, terrified squeak.
"Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars," I said. "Due in full by November 24th at five o'clock. Since you are the sole managing member of Oak & Stone Holdings, the personal deficiency judgment will attach directly to your name, your assets, and your bank accounts."
"No..." Diane gasped, shaking her head violently. "No, no, no! We don't have four hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Brandon gave me twelve thousand yesterday, and the rental account only has thirty-five thousand! Where are we supposed to get half a million dollars in nine days?"
"You could ask Aunt Evelyn," I suggested, tilting my head. "Oh, wait. Evelyn is currently cooperating with the county prosecutor to avoid being indicted as your co-conspirator. I don't think she's taking your calls."
Diane let out a low, guttural wail, crumpling onto the edge of one of her Samsonite suitcases. She covered her face with her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
The proud, arrogant matriarch who had spent four years treating me like an inferior domestic servant had completely evaporated. What was left was a terrified sixty-three-year-old woman who had gambled her entire family's future on her son's narcissistic lies—and lost every chip on the table.
"Please, Claire," Diane sobbed, looking up at me through tear-stained mascara. "Don't let them take my condo. My husband worked forty years for that home. If Apex sues me, I'll be homeless! I'll have nothing!"
"You should have thought about that before you stamped my name on a fraudulent bank lien, Diane," I said, looking down at her without an ounce of warmth.
I checked my watch.
"It is five-fifteen," I said. "You have forty-five minutes to load the rest of your belongings into that Lexus and vacate my property."
Diane blinked through her tears. "Your property? Brandon owns half this house!"
"Brandon hasn't paid a mortgage payment in sixteen months," I said. "And as of two o'clock today, my family law attorney filed an emergency petition for exclusive possession of the marital residence based on domestic financial abuse and ongoing felony fraud."
I pointed toward the street, where a Westbrook Heights police cruiser was slowly turning the corner, its headlights illuminating the falling dusk.
"Officer Kowalski is just doing his routine evening patrol," I added calmly. "If you are still on my bluestone walkway at six o'clock, I will ask him to assist you with the remainder of your packing."
Diane looked at the approaching police car, then looked at me.
She saw no hesitation in my eyes. She saw no room for negotiation, no guilt, no sympathy to exploit.
With trembling hands, Diane scrambled to her feet, grabbed the handles of two suitcases, and began frantically heaving them into the back of her Lexus.
She didn't speak another word.
She packed in silence, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as the cruiser parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, watching her every move.
At five-fifty, Diane slammed the trunk of her car shut, climbed into the driver's seat, and sped down Sycamore Glen, her tires screeching slightly as she rounded the corner onto Dublin Road.
I stood on the front steps, watching her red taillights vanish into the autumn dark.
The house behind me was quiet.
No condescending remarks about proper womanhood. No passive-aggressive complaints about almond milk. No heavy, entitled footsteps demanding dinner.
I turned around, walked inside, and locked the front door behind me.
I walked into the kitchen, picked up the white envelope containing Brandon's twelve-thousand-dollar paycheck that was still sitting on the quartz counter where he had thrown it thirty-six hours ago, and slipped it into my briefcase.
The battle for the house was over.
May you like
Now came the end game.
***
