Chapter 7 - The Cleansing of the Home
Three days later, the hospital discharged Jessica and Olivia.
The physical healing had begun, but the psychological scars were raw. Olivia flinched whenever an adult moved too quickly, and Jessica still instinctively checked over her shoulder whenever a floorboard creaked.
I didn't take them back to the apartment on Meridian Avenue.
Instead, I booked an extended stay at a quiet, gated resort in Scottsdale—surrounded by blooming bougainvillea, private pools, and twenty-four-hour security. I hired a private trauma therapist specializing in early childhood recovery to visit Olivia daily, using play therapy with clay and watercolor to help her process the fear.
While they rested in the sunshine, I returned to the apartment alone.
The front door still bore the fingerprint dust left by the police forensics team. Inside, the heavy smell of roasted pork and cheap perfume had turned stale, sour, and suffocating.
I didn't want to live there anymore. I didn't want my family to ever set foot in a hallway where they had been hunted and terrorized. But before I put the property on the market, I had a job to do.
I hired a commercial junk removal crew with a massive industrial roll-off dumpster.
"Everything in that master guest room," I told the four burly movers, pointing down the hall. "Every piece of furniture. Every rug. Every dress in the closet. The antique desk. The velvet curtains. Throw it all into the dumpster."
"Mr. Ferris, some of these dresses are designer," the crew foreman said, peering into Carmen’s walk-in closet filled with silk and cashmere. "That mahogany furniture is worth thousands. We could donate it or take it to consignment."
"I don't care," I said. "Smash it and throw it in the trash. I don't want a single molecule of her energy left in this world."
For four hours, the sound of breaking wood and ripping fabric echoed through the building.
The heavy mahogany desk that had held the locked drawer was carried to the balcony and tossed into the massive steel dumpster below, splintering into jagged firewood with an explosive, satisfying crash. The red dresses, the expensive perfumes, the gold-trimmed mirrors, the crystal glasses her church friends had used—all of it was pulverized and hauled away.
Next, I brought in an industrial cleaning crew. They scrubbed the kitchen down to the bare tile, stripping every trace of grease, bleach, and bad memories. They tore out the plastic stool Olivia had stood on and threw it away.
While the cleaners worked, I sat at the bare kitchen counter with my laptop, working alongside our family attorney, Arthur Pendelton.
Pendelton was a pit bull of a civil litigator.
"We’ve filed the lis pendens and frozen her hidden assets," Arthur reported over the phone. "Her offshore account in Belize was caught before the funds cleared. We recovered all eighty-five thousand dollars she forged from you. Furthermore, we discovered an inheritance she had secretly tucked into an annuity from your late uncle—roughly one hundred and forty thousand dollars. We have placed a civil lien on it for intentional infliction of emotional distress and battery against Jessica and Olivia."
"Give it all to Jessica," I said without hesitation. "Put it in an irrevocable trust solely under Jessica’s and Olivia's names. I don't want a dime of it. It’s their restitution."
"Understood," Arthur said. "And Zayden? Carmen’s trial date has been set. The prosecutor isn't offering a plea deal. They want twenty years minimum. She’s going to state prison."
When the cleaners finished that evening, the apartment was empty, hollow, and silent. The windows were wide open, letting the cool desert breeze sweep away the last lingering remnants of floral perfume.
May you like
I locked the door for the final time, handed the keys to our real estate agent, and drove back toward Scottsdale, toward the only people who mattered in my universe.
***
