Chapter 13 - Whispers in Hendersonville
The Hendersonville commercial plaza sat on a prime corner lot just off Main Street, featuring four distinct storefronts: a local artisanal bakery, a high-end boutique bookstore, a boutique pet grooming salon, and—occupying the largest corner unit—Brittany’s former failed enterprise, which now sat empty and locked behind steel security shutters covered in peeling "For Lease" signs.
Claire and I stood on the sidewalk across the street, holding warm cups of cider from the bakery next door, surveying our newly acquired property. The afternoon sun glinted off the large glass display windows, and a steady stream of local foot traffic flowed past the shops.
"It's actually a great location," Claire observed, blowing gently across the surface of her cider. "It's criminal that Margaret let Brittany run the boutique into the ground out of sheer incompetence and vanity."
"Incompetence is putting it mildly," I replied, my gaze fixed on the empty storefront that had once served as the incubator for my family’s financial corruption. "According to Attorney Harrison’s audit, Margaret didn't just use my trust funds to pay off Brittany's business debts; she was skimming cash from the other three tenants to pay off the shadow lenders who came to our house that night."
"Do the other business owners know what happened?" Claire asked softly.
"Not the full extent of it," I admitted. "They just knew that Margaret Vance was acting as the property manager under an assumed corporate entity called 'Vance Holdings LLC,' and that rent payments had to be made via wire transfer instead of standard checks. They were terrified of her; she used to threaten to evict them on a whim if they complained about maintenance issues."
"Well, that ends today," Claire said, setting her cup down in a nearby trash receptacle and smoothing down her jacket. "Let's go introduce ourselves to the bakers and the bookstore owner. I think it's time the tenants knew who their actual landlord is—and that the era of tyranny is officially over."
We crossed the street and walked into *The Gilded Page*, a charming independent bookstore filled with towering wooden shelves and the rich, comforting scent of old paper and roasted coffee beans. The bell above the door chimed pleasantly as we entered. An older woman with sharp silver hair tied back in a neat bun and wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose looked up from the front counter.
"Welcome," she said warmly. "Take your time browsing—though if you're looking for the historical non-fiction section, we just restocked the Civil War logistics monographs yesterday."
I couldn't help a small smile. "That sounds right up my alley. But actually, we aren't here to browse books today."
The woman—whose name tag read *Evelyn*—raised an eyebrow, her gaze shifting from me to Claire. "Oh? Are you with the city zoning board again? Because I already told the last inspector that our sidewalk signage complies with municipal ordinances."
"No, Evelyn," I said, stepping up to the counter and pulling out my identification along with the newly notarized trust deeds from Attorney Harrison's office. "I'm Ethan Vance. And this is my wife, Claire."
Evelyn froze. The color drained slightly from her face, and her hands gripped the edge of the wooden counter. "Vance... As in Margaret Vance’s son?"
"The very same," I said calmly. "And I'm here to tell you that Margaret will no longer be managing this property. In fact, she is currently serving an eight-year sentence in state prison for wire fraud, forgery, and conspiracy."
May you like
Evelyn stared at us for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, the tension dissolved from her shoulders, replaced by an expression of profound, unfiltered shock. She reached up, pushed her glasses up onto her forehead, and let out a breathless laugh.
"Prison," she repeated, tasting the word as if it were sweet wine. "Margaret Vance is in prison? Good Lord, child... do you have any idea how many people in this plaza have been praying for this day?"
