Chapter 3 - The Broken Latch
Vance filled the doorway of the small apartment, flanked by a burly man wearing a grease-stained hoodie and carrying a heavy toolbox containing industrial padlocks and a crowbar.
"Two hours are up, pal," Vance barked, stepping inside without knocking. He took in the sight of my leather shoes, my suit coat, and the manila envelope in my hand. "I told you to clear out. We're locking the unit tonight."
"It's been forty minutes, Vance," I said, stepping into the center of the living room, blocking his path to the back bedroom where Emily was frantically stuffing baby clothes into a duffel bag. "And you know damn well you can't perform a self-help eviction in Minnesota without a court order, especially with minors involved."
Vance chuckled, a low, rasping sound. "You think the cops care about a squatter who skipped town? The mother’s gone. The kids are going to social services, and this furniture is going to the curb."
He took a step toward the bedroom. I didn't back up. I moved directly into his physical space, chest to chest.
"Touch that door," I said, my voice dropping into a low, quiet register that made his partner hesitate, "and I will personally file a civil suit against you for unlawful lockouts, child endangerment, and harassment before the sun comes up. I own a corporate law firm three miles from here, Vance. I have five partners who do nothing all day but dismantle guys like you."
Vance stared at me, his jaw working as he calculated the risk. He looked at my tailored suit, the total lack of fear in my eyes, and the quiet authority in my posture. He didn't know if I was bluffing, but he knew fighting a wealthy lawyer over a dilapidated upper unit wasn't worth the legal bill.
"Get them out," Vance muttered, taking a step back toward the hallway. "Thirty minutes. If I see your truck still parked in front of my building by eight o'clock, I'm calling the city marshal."
"Deal," I said.
He backed out, slamming the door so hard the glass panes rattled in the frame.
I turned back to the bedroom. Emily was standing by the crib, holding the duffel bag in one hand and the rusted cash box in the other. Her big brown eyes were wide with terror, but she hadn't cried out once.
"It's okay," I said, taking the heavy steel box from her hands. "We're leaving now. My truck is right outside."
We packed the babies into their carriers, wrapping them in every clean blanket Emily could find. I carried the infants down the dark, creaking stairs while Emily clung to my coat hem, her small fingers locked into the fabric like steel clamps.
Outside, the cold rain had turned into a thick, wet snow—the first flurry of the Minnesota winter. I loaded the babies into the warm back seat of my crew-cab truck, securing their carriers into the seatbelts, while Emily climbed into the front passenger seat, holding the manila envelope tight against her lap.
As I started the engine, the heater roared to life, blowing hot air through the cabin. Emily closed her eyes, letting out a long, ragged sigh as the warmth enveloped her frozen frame.
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"Where are we going?" she asked quietly, looking out at the dark streets of St. Paul.
"To my house," I said, putting the truck in drive. "It's warm. There's food. And nobody is going to lock any doors on you ever again."
