Chapter 7 - The Eviction of Margaret VanceThe fire department managed to save the house, but just barely. The entire front porch was destroyed, and severe smoke damage had gutted the main entryway.
I didn't care. The house could be rebuilt. The important thing was that Ethan's bail was immediately revoked. The judge, furious that a suspect out on bond had attempted to set fire to the victim's home, remanded him to the county jail without the possibility of release until trial.
The next morning, the sky was clear and bright, a sharp contrast to the smoke and ash of the previous night. My father and I sat in a booth at a local diner, sipping black coffee.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from the trust lawyer, Mr. Harrison.
Sheriff's deputies are en route to the guest house to serve Margaret Vance.
"It's time," I told my father, showing him the screen.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and left a twenty on the table. "Let's go watch."
When we pulled up to the estate, the smell of charred wood hung heavy in the air. We parked near the gate and waited. Ten minutes later, two sheriff's cruisers rolled up the driveway, heading straight for the picturesque guest house at the back of the property.
My father and I walked slowly up the path, arriving just as the deputies knocked heavily on the door.
Margaret opened it, wearing a silk robe, a cup of expensive tea in her hand. When she saw the deputies, her face dropped. When she saw me standing behind them, her expression twisted into pure hatred.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.
"Margaret Vance?" the lead deputy asked. "You are hereby served with a formal notice of immediate eviction. As this property belongs to the Claire Bennett Irrevocable Trust, and you have been found actively complicit in the harassment of the owner, your guest privileges are revoked. You have exactly one hour to pack your belongings and vacate the premises. If you are still here in sixty-one minutes, you will be arrested for trespassing."
The tea cup slipped from Margaret's hand, shattering on the stone porch.
"You can't do this!" she shrieked, her eyes wild. "My son is an officer! He has rights to this property! You are stealing from us!"
"Your son is in a six-by-eight cell, Margaret," I said, stepping forward. The timid, fearful girl I had been for the last year was dead and buried. The woman standing on that path was entirely my father's daughter. "And he is never stepping foot on my property again. Neither are you."
"Claire, please," Margaret suddenly pivoted, her voice cracking as the reality of her situation hit her. Without Ethan’s military salary or access to my trust, she had nothing. She had drained her savings to pay a bail bondsman—money she was never getting back now that Ethan had violated his release. "Where am I supposed to go? I have no money. Please, I'm going to be a grandmother."
"You lost the right to call yourself that," I said coldly, looking at the bruised arm she had dug her fingernails into just days prior. "Start packing."
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We stood on the lawn and watched as a woman who had tormented me, gaslit me, and aided in my abuse was forced to stuff her designer clothes into garbage bags. She dragged them down the driveway to a waiting taxi, weeping uncontrollably.
I didn't feel an ounce of pity. I only felt free.
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