Chapter 5 - The Eviction on Elm Street
While I slept under the watchful eyes of the hospital nursing staff, ten miles away, the Vance family dynasty was being torn apart at the seams.
The rain had begun to fall in sheets over the affluent suburb of Bedford, New York. Outside the towering gates of the Vance estate, three massive moving vans sat idling, their hazard lights casting eerie orange halos through the mist.
Rachel Vance stood in the middle of the circular driveway, drenched to the skin in her silk designer blouse, screaming at two uniformed county sheriff deputies.
"You can't touch that! That's a nineteen-thirties Lalique crystal vase!" Rachel shrieked, lunging toward a mover who was carefully carrying a padded crate toward the truck. "Drop it, you thief!"
"Ma'am, step back!" Deputy Miller ordered, placing a firm, gloved hand against Rachel’s shoulder to push her back. "Every single asset on this property is cataloged under the Thomas Vance Trust. You have been given your designated allowance of personal clothing and toiletries. Anything beyond that is subject to federal court inventory."
"Mom! Do something!" Rachel wailed, turning toward Eleanor, who sat on the stone steps of the grand entryway.
Eleanor Vance looked like a ghost of the regal matriarch she had pretended to be for decades. Her carefully coiffed blonde hair was plastered against her skull by the rain. Her designer knit cardigan was soaked, sagging heavily against her shoulders. She was frantically dialing numbers on her diamond-encrusted iPhone, but every call went straight to voicemail.
"Julian won't answer," Eleanor muttered, her eyes wide, staring blankly into the darkness. "The board members aren't answering. The bank manager... he said the accounts were frozen by federal court order at four p.m."
"What do you mean the accounts are frozen?!" Rachel screamed, running over and shaking her mother by the shoulders. "How am I supposed to pay my rent in Manhattan? How am I supposed to pay my PR firm? I have an appointment for my wedding dress fitting tomorrow morning!"
"There is no wedding, Rachel!" a harsh voice shouted from the driveway.
A black sports car screeched to a halt beside the police cruisers. Julian stepped out, holding an umbrella over his head, entirely ignoring the rain pouring onto Rachel.
"Julian!" Rachel cried, rushing toward him with outstretched arms. "Thank God you're here! Tell these pigs who we are! Tell them to stop!"
Julian didn't hug her. Instead, he shoved her away with enough force that she slipped on the wet asphalt, landing hard on her hands and knees.
"Don't touch me," Julian snarled, his eyes burning with fury. "You lied to me. Both of you."
"Julian, what are you talking about?" Rachel sobbed from the ground, her knees scraped and bleeding through her expensive trousers. "I love you!"
"You loved my family's social standing," Julian spat, pulling an engagement ring box from his pocket and throwing it onto the wet gravel beside her. "Your lawyer showed me the audit, Rachel. You don't have a dime. You're facing federal wire fraud charges. My firm just told me that if I associate with you for one more day, I'm fired from the fund."
"Julian, please!" Eleanor called out, stumbling down the steps. "It's a misunderstanding! We have offshore reserves—"
"Save it, Eleanor," Julian shouted, getting back into his car. "The wedding is off. Don't ever call my phone again. If either of you comes near my apartment, I'm filing a restraining order."
The engine roared to life, and Julian sped down the driveway, his rear tires kicking up a shower of wet gravel and mud that coated Rachel’s face and clothes.
Rachel collapsed onto the wet driveway, weeping hysterically, pounding her fists against the stone.
Deputy Miller walked over, checking his wristwatch. "Your time is up, ladies. The gate codes have been changed. The locks on the house have been re-keyed. You need to get into your car and leave the property immediately."
"Where are we supposed to go?" Rachel cried, looking up with red, swollen eyes. "We don't have anywhere to go!"
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"There’s a Motel 6 on Route 22," the deputy said without an ounce of pity. "Now move. Or you spend the night in the county holding cell for criminal trespass."
***
