Chapter 5 - Sunday Silence
The Sunday afternoon sun was warm and golden when Stuart’s silver SUV crunched up the gravel driveway of the Maple Street house.
Inside the vehicle, Stuart adjusted his rearview mirror, practicing his most sympathetic, authoritative expression. Beside him, Jennifer was tapping her fingernails impatiently against her leather handbag, mentally calculating how much money would be left over after funding their European vacation and remodeling their master kitchen.
“Remember,” Jennifer whispered as they stepped out onto the paved walkway. “Don't let her bully you into delaying. If she gets stubborn, we threaten to involve Dr. Campbell immediately.”
“Relax, Jen, I’ve got this handled,” Stuart muttered, adjusting his suit jacket.
He walked up the front steps, pulled his emergency brass key from his pocket, and slid it smoothly into the deadbolt.
He turned the key.
It didn't turn.
Stuart frowned, jiggling the key inside the cylinder. “That’s strange. Did she change the locks?”
“Open it, Stuart,” Jennifer snapped, stepping closer.
Stuart tried his master key again, but the heavy oak door remained firmly, immovably sealed. Frustrated, he walked over to the front parlor window and cupped his hands around his eyes to peer through the pristine glass panes.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
The living room was completely, horrifyingly bare. No antique Persian rug. No floral armchairs. No framed family portraits hanging on the freshly painted walls.
Just polished, empty hardwood floors reflecting the afternoon sun.
“Jen...” Stuart breathed out, his voice shaking. “The house... it’s empty.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded, pushing past him to press her own face against the glass.
Before either of them could process the surreal nightmare unfolding before their eyes, a sleek, unfamiliar sedan pulled quietly into the driveway behind their SUV.
An elegant, middle-aged woman in a crisp linen blazer stepped out of the car, carrying a stack of mail. She walked up the brick path with a pleasant, polite smile on her face.
“Hello there! Can I help you?” Eleanor Henderson asked politely.
Stuart spun around, his face white as a sheet, stammering incoherently. “Who... who are you? What are you doing at my mother’s house?”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, maintaining her calm composure. “I think you mean my house. My husband and I closed on the property last week.”
The words hit Stuart like a physical blow to the stomach.
“Closed?” he shouted, his voice cracking into a high-pitched shriek. “That’s impossible! My mother owns this house! I am her power of attorney! No sale can happen without my knowledge!”
Eleanor’s smile vanished, replaced by a cool, sharp corporate professionalism.
“I suggest you speak with your mother, young man,” she said firmly, inserting her own heavy brass key into the front door lock. It turned with a satisfying, decisive click. “As far as legal deeds, title insurance, and bank registries are concerned, Inez Mercer hasn't owned this property for nearly a week. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have contractors arriving to measure for window treatments.”
The heavy oak door swung open, and closed right in their dumbfounded faces.
Stuart stood paralyzed on the porch, his jaw slack, staring at the freshly painted green door as if it had turned into a ghost.
Jennifer let out a sharp, hysterical gasp. “What do you mean, she sold it? Where is she? Where is the money? Stuart, call her right now!”
Stuart fumbled frantically in his pockets, pulled out his smartphone, and dialed his mother’s direct cell number with trembling fingers.
The phone rang twice.
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Then a crisp, automated robotic voice cut through the speaker:
“The subscriber you have dialed is no longer in service, or has been permanently disconnected.”
