Chapter 6 - The Locks Are Changed
At six o'clock that evening, the rain had finally stopped, leaving the streets of Baltimore gleaming under the neon city lights.
I stood in the carpeted hallway on the fourth floor of my apartment building, accompanied by my father, Arthur Vance, two armed uniformed police officers, and a professional locksmith carrying a heavy steel toolbox.
The door to my apartment was locked from the inside.
One of the police officers stepped forward and knocked heavily on the mahogany door with his knuckles.
"Baltimore City Police! Mr. Brandon Miller, open the door immediately! We have a signed court order granting immediate physical occupancy to Mrs. Chloe Miller!"
Silence answered from inside the apartment.
The officer knocked again, louder this time. "Mr. Miller, if you do not open this door in ten seconds, we will authorize the locksmith to drill out the deadbolt!"
A few seconds later, the lock clicked, and the heavy door pulled open slowly.
Brandon stood in the entryway. He looked like a shell of the man who had dragged my mother across the floor three days ago. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair unwashed, and his eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying. Behind him, standing in the middle of the living room, was Brenda, furiously stuffing her designer clothes into a pair of suitcases.
"You have thirty minutes to collect your personal clothing and leave the premises, Mr. Miller," the lead officer said, stepping into the foyer and handing Brandon a stamped copy of Judge Harrison's court order. "Any attempt to remove furniture, electronics, or joint property will result in your immediate arrest for destruction of disputed marital assets."
Brandon took the paper with trembling fingers, refusing to make eye contact with me.
"Chloe..." Brandon choked out, his voice weak and trembling as he looked at me standing beside my father. "Please... can we just talk in private? Just for five minutes? We can work this out without the police..."
I stepped into the apartment, looking around at the home I had worked three thousand hours of night shifts to pay for. The living room was cluttered with Brenda's trash, half-eaten takeout containers, and spilled coffee mugs.
"There is nothing to talk about, Brandon," I said, my tone as cold and hard as marble. "You forged my name. You threw my sick mother out into the cold in her nightgown. You stole my life savings and tried to leave me with forty-seven dollars."
"It was my mother's idea!" Brandon blurted out desperately, turning and pointing a finger straight at Brenda. "She convinced me! She said you'd never find out! She said we could move to Annapolis and start over!"
Brenda froze, dropping a leather handbag onto the floor, her face twisting into rage as she stared at her son.
"You pathetic coward!" Brenda screamed at Brandon, her voice echoing off the walls. "You blame me? You were the one practicing her signature in the kitchen every night for four months! You were the one who bought the notary cash!"
The two police officers looked at each other, one of them pulling out a small pocket notebook and rapidly writing down their spontaneous confessions.
"Quiet down, both of you," the officer commanded sternly. "Get your clothes and get out. Now."
For twenty excruciating minutes, Brandon and Brenda frantically gathered their personal items under the watchful eyes of the police officers and my father. They packed their suitcases in absolute silence, turning on each other like starved animals trapped in a cage.
When Brenda rolled her last suitcase to the door, she stopped in front of me, her teeth clenched.
"You think you won, you little baker?" Brenda sneered, her voice trembling with hatred. "My house in Annapolis is frozen, but my son still has his corporate job at the financial firm! He makes two hundred thousand dollars a year! We will hire the best criminal defense lawyers in Maryland and destroy you in court!"
Arthur Vance stepped forward, holding a legal document he had pulled from his pocket.
"Actually, Mrs. Miller," Arthur said smoothly, offering a tight, professional smile. "I took the liberty of faxing a certified copy of Judge Harrison's court order and the criminal referral document to the Chief Compliance Officer at Brandon's employer—Apex Financial Group—at four o'clock today."
Brandon stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in pure horror. "What? What did you do?!"
"Apex Financial Group is a SEC-regulated institutional firm, Brandon," Arthur explained calmly. "Under federal banking regulations, an employee who is under active criminal investigation for grand larceny, forgery, and bank fraud cannot maintain a Series 7 license or manage client assets. I believe their HR director left a voicemail on your work phone fifteen minutes ago regarding your administrative suspension pending termination."
Brandon reached into his pocket with frantic, shaking hands, pulled out his corporate smartphone, and unlocked the screen.
He listened to the voicemail for three seconds before dropping the thousand-dollar phone onto the floor, where the glass screen shattered into a spiderweb of cracks.
"My job..." Brandon whispered, collapsing against the entryway wall, clutching his head in his hands. "My career... it's gone..."
"Time's up, folks," the police officer said, grabbing Brandon by the elbow and ushering him forcefully out into the hallway. "Out you go."
The locksmith immediately stepped up to the doorframe, pulled out a high-powered electric drill, and began drilling into the copper deadbolt casing, filling the air with the sharp scent of hot metal.
Ten minutes later, the locksmith handed me three brand-new, polished silver keys.
"Here you go, ma'am," the locksmith smiled kindly. "New heavy-duty deadbolts installed top and bottom. Nobody enters this apartment without these keys."
I took the warm silver keys into my hand, feeling their weight, and walked over to the tall living room window.
Down on the wet street four floors below, I watched Brandon and Brenda standing in the light rain, surrounded by their rolling suitcases, frantically trying to hail a yellow taxi that refused to stop for them.
My father walked up behind me, placing a warm, gentle hand on my shoulder.
"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" my father asked softly.
May you like
I looked at my reflection in the windowpane—a woman who was no longer afraid, no longer tired, and no longer trapped.
"I feel like I'm finally breathing, Dad," I whispered. "Let me go get Mom from your house. It's time she came back home."
