Chapter 7 - The Eviction at Dawn
By two o'clock in the morning, the gates of the Star Island mansion were flanked by three marked county cruiser units and two private moving vans.
The rain had begun to fall—a warm, torrential Florida downpour that turned the manicured lawns into slick marshland.
Preston and Evelyn arrived in a yellow taxi cab. Preston’s credit cards had been declined at the gala valet; the hotel had confiscated the keys to his Mercedes Maybach under a writ of preliminary attachment issued by the circuit court two hours prior. He had been forced to borrow eighty dollars in cash from a sympathetic junior coat-check boy just to pay the cab fare across the MacArthur Causeway.
As the taxi screeched to a halt outside the wrought-iron gates, Preston hurled himself out of the backseat. His tuxedo was drenched within seconds.
“Open the gate!” he roared at the security guards standing behind the perimeter fence. “This is my house! I own this estate! Open the damn gate!”
The gate did not move. Instead, Marcus Cole stepped forward from the guardhouse, holding an umbrella in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
“You don’t own the grass you’re standing on, Mr. Vance,” Marcus said through the intercom speaker.
“Let me in!” Evelyn howled from the backseat of the cab, thrusting her head out into the downpour. Her silver hair had come undone, plastering against her skull like wet cobwebs. “My jewelry is in the master safe! My European antiques!”
Marcus gestured over his shoulder.
Two movers walked down the driveway carrying four large, black plastic garbage bags. With casual indifference, they tossed the bags over the six-foot iron fence. They landed with wet, heavy thuds on the asphalt near Preston’s feet.
“What is this?” Preston stammered, staring down at the bags.
“Your personal wardrobe,” Marcus replied. “Standard garments only. Suits with an acquisition value under five hundred dollars. The rest—the custom tailoring, the watches, the Italian footwear—were purchased with accounts frozen under the federal racketeering audit. They belong to the receiver now.”
Preston tore open one of the bags. Inside were cotton t-shirts, worn sneakers, and the cheap suits he had worn seven years ago before Sterling Crown had started bankrolling his rise.
“Where is Clara?” Preston screamed into the rain, tears mixing with the water streaming down his cheeks. “Let me see my wife! Clara! Clara!”
The front doors of the mansion opened wide fifty yards up the driveway.
I stepped onto the covered portico, dry and untouchable, wearing a tailored cream cashmere sweater and black trousers. In my hand, I held a warm cup of Earl Grey tea.
The driveway floodlights illuminated the iron gates, casting Preston’s silhouette against the bars like an animal pacing behind a cage.
“Clara!” Preston’s voice reached me across the wet courtyard. “I know you’re listening! You loved me! You can’t erase seven years! You’re my wife!”
I took a slow sip of tea.
I didn’t shout. I didn’t raise my voice. I spoke into the two-way handheld radio Marcus had linked to the gate speaker.
“Preston,” my voice boomed through the wet night.
He froze, clutching the iron bars with both hands, his knuckles bleeding against the ornamental spikes. “Clara! Please, baby! Let me come in! We can talk about this! We can settle the debt together!”
“You asked me earlier why I stayed for seven years,” I said evenly. “I stayed because I wanted to see if there was a single ember of the man I met in that coffee shop left inside your soul. I waited for you to say ‘Thank you, Clara.’ I waited for you to tell your mother that I deserved respect. I waited for seven years for you to choose me over your vanity.”
“I choose you!” he cried out, his voice cracking into a ragged sob. “I choose you now! Look at me, Clara! I choose you!”
“No, Preston,” I said, setting my teacup down on the outdoor marble table. “You choose my balance sheet. You choose the mansion. You choose the power. You never saw me when I was standing right in front of you. And now, you will never see me again.”
I nodded to Marcus.
Marcus turned off the gate intercom. He signaled to the county deputies parked across the street.
The deputy cruiser’s red and blue lights ignited, splashing gaudy colors across the wet pavement. Two officers stepped out, their hands resting on their utility belts.
“Mr. Vance, Mrs. Vance,” the lead deputy said, walking toward them. “You’ve been served with an emergency trespass warning. If you remain on Star Island Drive for another ninety seconds, you will be transported to the Turner Guilford Knight Correctional Center. Move along.”
Evelyn burst into uncontrollable, hysterical wails, sinking onto the wet asphalt next to the garbage bags. Preston stood there, gripping the bars, screaming my name until his voice broke into an unintelligible rasp.
I turned around, walked inside the warm, silent foyer of the mansion, and closed the solid mahogany doors behind me.
May you like
The click of the deadbolt was the sweetest sound I had ever heard.
***
