Chapter 3 - The Morning NoticeThe morning sun broke over Portland with a sharp, blinding clarity, burning off the lingering mist from Casco Bay. I was already seated at a corner table in a quiet café three blocks from Cumberland Avenue, sipping black coffee and reviewing corporate tax returns with Julian on my iPad, when my phone buzzed violently against the wooden tabletop.
It was an incoming call from Gavin.
I let it ring three times, watching the screen illuminate with his name—a name that had once felt like safety, but now looked like a flashing warning sign of deceit. On the fourth ring, I swiped to answer, keeping my voice utterly devoid of emotion.
“Clara? Where the hell are you?” Gavin’s voice blasted through the speaker, frantic, furious, and entirely stripped of his usual polished courtroom charm. “There are two armed process servers standing in our front hallway right now! They just slapped an eviction notice and a trespassing injunction on me and Brooke!”
I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting the silence stretch out for a agonizing few seconds.
“It’s not our house, Gavin,” I replied calmly. “It’s my house. Check the deed. You were too busy siphoning restaurant funds and planning your life with my sister to notice that your name was never on the title.”
“You can’t do this!” he shouted, background noise—a baby crying and Brooke screaming hysterical insults in the distance—bleeding through his phone. “Brooke just gave birth sixteen days ago! We have a newborn infant in this house! This is illegal! I’m a commercial real estate attorney, I will sue you into oblivion, Clara—!”
“Go right ahead,” I interrupted, my tone icy. “Consult your favorite real estate attorney. Oh wait—you are one, and you still managed to overlook a basic pre-marital asset exclusion clause. Good luck finding a judge in Maine who will protect a cheating husband squatting in his ex-wife’s property.”
“Clara, please—” His voice cracked, the panic finally breaking through his arrogant facade. “Let’s be reasonable. We can talk about this. Let’s sit down, just the two of us, and work out an arrangement. Brooke is beside herself, the baby is upset—just come home—”
“I am home, Gavin,” I said softly. “Enjoy packing your things. The locksmith arrives at noon to change the deadbolts.”
I hung up before he could utter another word.
Julian, sitting across from me, looked up from his tablet with a broad grin. “Did he sound appropriately unhinged?”
“He sounded like a man standing on a trapdoor waiting for the lever to be pulled,” I replied, closing my laptop. “How are the invitations for the grand gala coming along?”
“All two hundred and fifty golden envelopes have been printed, sealed, and securely stored,” Julian confirmed, tapping his briefcase. “Every major stakeholder in Portland’s financial and real estate sectors will receive one by courier forty-eight hours before the event. Inside each envelope will be a flash drive containing the complete financial audit of First Light Holdings, the bank transfers from your restaurant accounts, and the proof of the mortgage fraud.”
“And the venue?”
“Booked and paid for by Gavin himself, ironically enough, using funds from the joint account he thought he controlled,” Julian laughed softly. “The grand ballroom at the Cliffside Resort. Complete with a live string quartet, gourmet catering, and wall-to-wall mirrors. It’s going to be the most expensive public implosion in Portland history.”
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I looked down at the antique gold bracelet on my wrist, tracing the engraving with my thumb. First Star.
The trap was set. Now, we just had to wait for them to walk into the light.
