Chapter 4 - The Locks Are Changed
By three o'clock that afternoon, a commercial locksmith van was parked in the driveway of our five-bedroom home in the quiet suburbs of Bellevue.
I sat in the passenger seat of my mother's sedan, watching the locksmith drill out the high-tech smart locks Declan had installed two years ago. The sky was still gray, but the rain had stopped, leaving the pavement glistening under the damp trees.
My phone—retrieved from Declan's glove box by Arthur's legal assistant under threat of immediate police intervention— sat in my lap. It had sixty-two missed calls, forty-eight text messages, and dozens of voicemails.
Most of them were from Declan’s mother, Evelyn.
I picked up the phone as it began to ring again. Evelyn’s photo flashed on the screen. I pressed speaker.
"Eleanor!" Evelyn’s shrill, frantic voice filled the car. "What on earth is going on?! Declan just called me from a parking lot in tears! He says you're threatening him with lawyers and refusing to let him into his own home!"
"It isn't his home, Evelyn," I said calmly, watching the locksmith pull the old brass cylinder out of the front door. "The house was purchased entirely with the inheritance from my grandfather's estate. Declan's name was added to the title contingent on our marriage remaining intact."
"He is the father of your child!" Evelyn barked. "He made a mistake! He told me about that awful Sterling woman—he was manipulated, Eleanor! Sloan set him up!"
"He left me in a locked salvage yard in the rain while I was eight months pregnant, Evelyn," I stated flatly. "He plugged my phone into his car and drove off with my medication, my wallet, and my coat."
There was a long pause on the line. Even Evelyn, who had spent seven years defending her son's every failure, seemed briefly choked by the sheer brutality of the facts.
"He... he was panicked," she stammered, her voice losing its aggressive edge. "He thought you were having a nervous breakdown—"
"He took out a insurance policy on my life three weeks ago, Evelyn," I cut her off. "I have the signed policy documents in front of me."
Silence heavy as lead hung on the line for five seconds.
"Don't call this number again," I said, and hung up.
The locksmith walked over to the car window, tapping gently on the glass. He handed me a ring of four shiny silver keys.
"All deadbolts replaced, ma'am," he said politely. "The garage door codes have been wiped, and the smart-home app access has been unlinked from the previous owner's device. You're the only one who can unlock this house now."
"Thank you," I said.
My mother and I walked up the stone pathway into the grand foyer. The house was dead quiet. The air still smelled of the fresh lavender oil Declan loved to use in the diffusers. On the dining room table sat the mail from Thursday: crib catalogs, baby registry confirmations, and a card from my sister wishing us a smooth delivery.
I walked into the nursery on the ground floor. The walls were painted a soft sage green. The crib we had assembled together two months ago stood against the main wall, perfectly framed by the window overlooking the garden.
I sat down in the wooden rocking chair in the corner of the room, holding my stomach as a soft, fluttery kick pressed against my palm.
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"We're safe now," I whispered into the quiet room.
Suddenly, the front door handle rattled violently from the porch outside.
