Chapter 4 - The Extraction
At two o’clock that afternoon, two marked police cruisers pulled up outside the brick duplex Travis and I had rented for two years.
Officer Ramirez, a broad-shouldered patrol officer with a calm, no-nonsense demeanor, met Jenna, Owen, and me at the sidewalk. I had a rented box truck parked around the corner with two professional movers Jenna had hired that morning.
“You have your lease agreement and your identification?” Officer Ramirez asked.
“Right here,” I said, handing over the lease containing both my signature and Travis’s. “I’m here strictly to retrieve my personal property, clothing, baby nursery furniture that I purchased with my independent account, and family heirlooms.”
“Understood,” Ramirez said. “We are here solely to keep the peace. You have sixty minutes. If anyone interferes, they will be removed from the premises.”
I put the key into the deadbolt. The lock turned with a familiar click, but the door resisted. Travis had put the interior chain on.
“Claire?” Travis’s voice sounded from the living room hallway. “Who is that?”
Officer Ramirez knocked hard against the doorframe. “Police department, Mr. Mercer. Open the door immediately.”
The chain rattled off the latch, and the door swung open. Travis stood in sweatpants and an old college t-shirt, clutching a coffee mug. His jaw dropped when he saw the two uniforms, followed by Jenna, Owen, and me.
“What the hell is this?” Travis yelled, stepping back into the living room. “Claire, are you insane? You brought cops to our house?”
“This is a civil standby, Mr. Mercer,” Officer Ramirez said flatly, stepping inside to secure the perimeter. “Step to the dining table and keep your hands visible. Miss Hayes has legal authority to retrieve her personal effects.”
From the hallway bathroom, Denise emerged, holding a bottle of bleach and a cleaning rag. She froze, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto me.
“You have nerve coming in here with badges!” Denise shrieked, advancing toward me with her rubber-gloved finger pointed at my nose. “You cheat on my boy, run off like a guilty coward, and now you’re raiding his house?”
“Ma'am, sit down on the couch right now,” the second officer commanded, stepping directly between Denise and me. “Do not approach the resident.”
“He is the resident! This is his home!” Denise spat.
“Both names are on the primary lease, ma’am,” Ramirez countered calmly. “Keep your voice down or you will wait outside on the curb.”
For the next forty-five minutes, the movers worked like a well-oiled machine. They hauled out the white crib I had paid for with my quarterly bonus, the glider chair, the boxes of unopened baby clothes from my baby shower, and my entire wardrobe.
Travis stood by the kitchen island, his face shifting through a kaleidoscope of panic, fury, and wounded vanity.
“You’re taking the crib?” he hissed as the movers wheeled the flat-packed frame through the foyer. “That’s for my baby!”
“You told fifty people yesterday that she isn't yours,” I replied evenly, not pausing as I packed my jewelry case into a cardboard box. “You told fifteen men to place bets on who got me pregnant.”
“It was frustration!” Travis pleaded, lowering his voice into a desperate whine as he leaned over the counter. “You’ve been cold to me for a month! I lashed out! Claire, please—look at me. We can fix this. I’ll make Brooke apologize!”
“Where’s the five thousand dollars from the joint account, Travis?” I asked, looking up directly into his eyes.
The color vanished from his cheeks. His lips parted, but nothing came out.
Beside him, Denise looked between us, her brow furrowing. “What five thousand dollars? Travis, what is she talking about?”
“Nothing, Ma,” Travis muttered, looking at the floor. “It’s just an investment.”
“It was my delivery fund,” I told Denise, letting every word land with deliberate weight. “He transferred it to an offshore crypto account forty-eight hours before he staged that circus in your backyard. Ask him how much he has left. Ask him why he really needed everyone to think I was a liar.”
Denise turned toward her son, her maternal bravado suddenly cracking under the weight of an ugly, undeniable truth. “Travis? Did you touch your emergency fund?”
“We’ll talk about it later!” Travis snapped at his mother, his mask slipping entirely.
The movers loaded the last box into the truck. Owen stood near the front door, holding a vintage cedar chest that had belonged to my late grandmother.
“Owen?” Travis snarled, glaring at his brother with pure hatred. “You helped her? You’re dead to this family, you hear me? Dead!”
Owen didn’t flinch. He adjusted his grip on the heavy cedar chest, met his brother’s furious stare, and said quietly, “You did this to yourself, Trav. Don’t blame the people who refused to burn with you.”
As I walked out the front door for the last time, Travis lunged toward the threshold, shouting, “You won't get a single cent from me, Claire! You hear me? Not one penny! Good luck raising a bastard on your own!”
May you like
Officer Ramirez closed the door firmly in his face.
***
