Chapter 3 - The EvictionI didn't bother pulling into the driveway when I got back to the house. I parked my truck diagonally across the lawn, the tires tearing deep gouges into the immaculate grass my mother had forced Amy to weed by hand.
The party guests were still there.
They hadn't left. Instead, they had moved into my living room. I walked through the front door to find my Aunt Shirley, Uncle Dave, and a dozen other relatives lounging on my expensive leather sectionals, eating leftover brisket and drinking my top-shelf scotch.
"Oh, thank god, Connor's back," Aunt Shirley said, waving a half-empty glass at me. "Listen, Brenda being arrested is a huge misunderstanding. You need to call the precinct and drop the charges. And honestly, calling the cops was a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"
I stared at her. "Get out."
Shirley blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You have exactly two minutes to get your fat, entitled ass off my couch, or I am throwing you through the front window," I said, my voice dangerously low.
Uncle Dave stood up, puffing out his chest. "Now listen here, boy. You don't disrespect your elders. Your mother provides for this family—"
"MY MONEY PROVIDES FOR THIS FAMILY!" I roared, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings. I grabbed the nearest object—a heavy crystal vase—and hurled it against the fireplace. It shattered into a thousand pieces, making everyone scream and jump back.
"My mother is going to federal prison for attempted murder and insurance fraud!" I yelled, advancing on them. "She was poisoning my wife and my son. And you leeches sat out in my backyard, eating food bought with my money, while my wife scrubbed pots on her hands and knees!"
The room went dead silent. The color drained from Shirley's face.
"Now," I said, pulling my phone from my pocket. "I am dialing 911 again. I will tell them I have fourteen trespassers in my home who are accomplices to a murder plot. Three... two..."
Panic erupted. They didn't even grab their coats. The entire flock of vultures scrambled over each other to get out the front door, slipping on the hardwood floors, crying and apologizing.
When the house was finally empty, I locked the deadbolt.
I walked upstairs to the master suite that my mother had commandeered for herself, forcing Amy and me into the smaller guest room when she moved in. I kicked the door open.
The room reeked of her expensive perfume. I tore the place apart. I pulled drawers out of the dresser, flipped the mattress, and ripped the backing off the mirrors.
I needed evidence. I needed to know exactly how deep her rot went.
Hidden inside a hollowed-out compartment in her nightstand, I found the jackpot. A black leather ledger.
I flipped it open. It was a meticulous record of every dime she had stolen from me. The $3,000 a month was just the start. She had been intercepting my mail, opening credit cards in Amy's name, and maxing them out to buy gold bars.
But the final entry made me stop breathing.
It was a transfer receipt. $250,000—my entire life savings, the money I had set aside for Frederick's college and our dream home. She had somehow bypassed my security questions and wired it to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.
The transfer was scheduled to clear on Monday. Today was Friday.
I had 48 hours to stop the wire, ruin her life, and get my family's future back.
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I pulled out my phone and called the one man I knew could help me. My college roommate, Marcus. He wasn't just a lawyer; he was a forensic accountant who worked for the FBI.
"Marcus," I said when he answered. "I need a favor. A big one."
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