Chapter 12 - The Eviction Ambush
On Wednesday morning at precisely nine o'clock, Grant arrived back in town from Chicago.
He didn't even drop his luggage at home. Instead, he drove straight to my house, meeting Paige in the driveway.
Following closely behind Paige’s car was a white passenger van displaying the discreet logo of *HavenCare Transitions*—a private transport service specializing in the involuntary relocation of cognitively impaired seniors. Inside the van were two burly orderlies and an intake specialist holding an administrative admission folder for Willow Terrace.
Grant stepped out of his car, adjusting his suit jacket. His face was set in a mask of ruthless determination.
“Is everything set?” Grant asked Paige quietly by the mailbox.
Paige looked pale and rattled, her eyes darting nervously around the quiet street. “Grant, wait… something is wrong. The silver I took… she knew. She left a note—”
“We don't have time for your paranoia!” Grant snapped, cutting her off. “The bank gave me forty-eight hours to clear my arrears! We get her signed into Willow Terrace today, we trigger the power of attorney, and we list this house before sundown! Let’s go.”
Grant led the intake specialist and the two orderlies up the front brick steps. He pulled his spare key from his pocket and thrust it into the brass deadbolt.
He turned the key.
It clicked uselessly. The lock had been replaced.
Grant frowned, rattling the brass doorknob with growing agitation. “What the hell? Did she change the locks?”
He banged his fist against the heavy oak door. “Mom! Open the door! It’s Grant! Open up right now!”
No sound came from inside.
Infuriated, Grant walked around to the side porch, found the decorative brick where I used to hide a spare key, and discovered it missing. Losing his temper entirely, he slammed his shoulder against the old wooden kitchen door until the secondary latch gave way with a loud splintering crack.
“Mom, don't make this harder than it has to be!” Grant shouted, storming into the kitchen. “We have medical professionals here to help you!”
He stopped dead in his tracks.
The kitchen was completely empty.
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No copper pots on the hanging rack. No tea kettle on the stove. No smells of cinnamon or roast coffee. Only bare white walls and pristine, swept floorboards.
***
