Chapter 4 - Sixty-One Missed Calls
Monday morning at 8:00 AM on Oak Ridge Lane was normally peaceful. The neighborhood was one of old money and towering elms, where retired executives walked their golden retrievers and gardeners tended to manicured hedges.
Richard Anderson stepped out onto his front porch wearing his monogrammed silk bathrobe, holding an expensive porcelain mug of Colombian roast. He took a deep breath of the morning air, fully expecting another quiet day of feeling like the master of his domain.
Inside, Vanessa was sitting in the kitchen island, laughing with their mother as she scrolled through her tablet, planning the interior renovations she intended to execute the moment Clara’s house was legally hers.
Then, two dark gray SUVs bearing the seal of the Cook County Sheriff’s Department pulled into the circular driveway, followed closely by a black town car.
Richard frowned, lowering his coffee mug. He walked toward the edge of the stone steps as four uniformed deputies and a tall woman in a sharp gray suit stepped out of the vehicles.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” Richard demanded in his signature booming voice, trying to project absolute authority. “This is private property.”
The woman in the suit stepped forward, holding a thick legal binder bound with official county seals.
“Richard Anderson?” she asked, her voice flat and bureaucratic.
“Yes, I am. And who authorized you to drive onto my lawn?”
“I am Special Investigator Diane Morales from the Cook County Property Fraud Division,” she said, handing him an envelope. “And this is Deputy Chief Miller. We are here to serve an emergency Notice of Immediate Vacate and Writ of Execution, issued by the Circuit Court of Cook County.”
Richard scoffed, waving the paper away like an annoying fly. “You have the wrong address. I’ve lived here for thirty years. I am the owner of this estate.”
“No, Mr. Anderson, you are not,” Investigator Morales said, looking down at her clipboard. “The legal owner of this property as of eight o’clock this morning is Apex Land Holdings Corporation, following an emergency closing executed by the titleholder, Miss Clara Anderson.”
Vanessa came sprinting out of the front door, still holding her tablet, her face pale. “What are you talking about? That’s impossible! I filed the deed transfer on Friday! Clara signed it over to me!”
Investigator Morales turned her gaze slowly toward Vanessa.
“Are you Vanessa Anderson-Cole?”
“Yes, I am! And I am the rightful owner—”
“Mrs. Cole,” Deputy Chief Miller interrupted, his hand resting casually on his utility belt, “I strongly suggest you stop speaking. Brenda Higgins, the notary public who stamped that document, was taken into custody two hours ago. She has already confessed that neither Clara Anderson nor any valid identification was present during the notarization. She stated you paid her three thousand dollars in cash to stamp a forged signature.”
Vanessa’s breath caught in her throat. The color vanished from her face so fast she looked like a corpse. She backed up against the porch pillar, her hand trembling against her mouth.
Richard stared at the papers in his hands. His eyes darted down the page, catching the lines: *IMMEDIATE NOTICE TO VACATE... SUMMARY TRESPASS WARNING... UNLAWFUL DETAINER... TITLE RECORDED: APEX HOLDINGS... FORMER TITLE: CLARA ANDERSON.*
His coffee mug slipped from his fingers, shattering across the brick steps, splashing dark liquid over his bare slippers.
“Clara... owned it?” Richard stammered, his booming voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched whimper. “No... no, she just paid the liens... she gave me the money...”
“The deed has been exclusively in Clara Anderson’s name for seven years, Mr. Anderson,” the investigator said coldly. “You were classified as non-paying tenants at will. Apex Holdings has scheduled demolition permits for Thursday morning. You have seventy-two hours to remove your personal effects. If you remain on the premises past Thursday at 8:00 AM, you will be arrested for criminal trespass.”
“Demolition?!” Eleanor’s shriek echoed from inside the house as she collapsed onto the hallway bench. “They’re tearing our house down?!”
The deputies turned and walked back to their vehicles, leaving Richard and Vanessa standing in the wreckage of their arrogance.
Back in downtown Chicago, I sat in the conference room of Marcus Vance’s office, sipping hot chamomile tea.
My phone, resting on the glass table, began to buzz.
*Eleanor Anderson (Mother).*
I didn't answer.
It buzzed again. And again. And again.
Within thirty minutes, the notification counter showed forty calls from my mother, twelve from Vanessa, and nine from my father.
Sixty-one missed calls.
Then, a text message arrived from Richard Anderson. The man who had sneered at my son, who had smashed a little boy's birthday cake onto the floor, who had called him a mistake.
*“Clara, please. I am your father. I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t know what Vanessa was doing. Please don’t do this to us. Your mother is having chest pains. Please call me back. Don’t throw us onto the street. Please, Clara.”*
I stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment.
Before I could lock the phone, the conference room door opened. Marcus’s receptionist stepped inside, her face tense.
“Miss Anderson? Mr. Vance?” she whispered. “There’s an older couple and a younger woman in the ground-floor lobby. Security stopped them at the turnstiles. They’re screaming your name and demanding to come up.”
Marcus looked at me, raising an eyebrow. “Do you want security to have them arrested for disturbing the peace right now?”
I stood up, smoothed down the lapels of my tailored navy blazer, and picked up my leather purse.
May you like
“No,” I said calmly. “Let’s go down. I want to look him in the eye one last time.”
***
