Chapter 3 - The Twelve O’Clock ArrivalAt precisely 12:05 p.m., the front door swung open with a cheerful, obnoxious bang.
“Joanna, darling! We brought organic lemon tarts from the bakery downtown!” Eden’s shrill, perfectly manicured voice echoed through the foyer.
Randy stepped inside right behind her, his hand resting possessively on his mother’s shoulder, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face. He was dressed in his crispest business-casual attire, clearly eager to gloat over my expected submission and discuss the immediate listing of my townhouse.
“Joanna, get out here and greet your mother-in-law,” Randy called out, tossing his car keys onto the entryway console. “And wipe that sullen look off your face. We have a bright future ahead of us—well, once you sign the deed transfer papers.”
They stepped out of the entryway and into the open-concept living room.
Then, simultaneously, they froze.
The laughter died in Eden’s throat. Randy’s smirk evaporated, replaced by a look of stunned, idiotic confusion.
The house was dead silent. There was no smell of roasting chicken or simmering soup. There was no obedient wife waiting by the kitchen with green concealer smeared over her bruises.
In fact, the house looked bizarrely empty. The walls were bare where my family portraits used to hang. The decorative console table was stripped clean.
And sitting dead center on the glass coffee table was a single, thick manila folder labeled in bold black marker: DISCOVERY & EVICTION.
“What is... what is this?” Eden stammered, her eyes darting frantically around the sterile room. “Randy, where are her things? Where is she?”
Randy didn't answer. His face had gone chalk-white. He stared at the coffee table, his breathing turning shallow and erratic. He took three hurried steps toward the master hallway, shouting, “Joanna! Joanna, what kind of game are you playing? Show your face right now!”
No answer.
Only the heavy, echoing silence of a trap snapping shut.
May you like
With trembling fingers, Randy walked over to the coffee table and picked up the thick manila folder. He flipped it open. The very first page was a high-resolution, full-color photograph of my bruised, swollen face taken that very morning, placed directly beside a certified copy of the police report and a federal financial subpoena.
As his eyes scanned the document, his knees buckled. The folder slipped from his nerveless fingers, scattering pages across the hardwood floor.
Related Stories
