Chapter 3 - The List on the Table
By 8:30 AM, I was sitting in the corner booth of a twenty-four-hour diner three miles from the highway, nursing a mug of lukewarm black coffee.
My wrist was throbbing in time with my pulse, but the pressure in my chest was gone. For the first time in twenty-four years, I was not responsible for the emotional weather of another human being.
At 9:00 AM sharp, I walked into the offices of Elm Street Realty.
The receptionist looked at the bandage wrapped around my wrist and the dark purple swelling around my left temple, her eyes widening slightly before professional decorum took over.
"May I help you?"
"I need to speak with Cynthia Miller," I said. "She was recommended by Mr. Prescott."
Cynthia was fifty, with sharp gray eyes, cropped hair, and the direct, no-nonsense manner of an experienced broker. She closed her office door, sat behind her walnut desk, and looked at me across a clean blotter.
"Mr. Prescott called me at eight-fifteen," Cynthia said without preamble. "He said you have an urgent listing."
I pulled the deed from my duffel bag and laid it on the desk. Beside it, I placed the complete title search, the tax assessments, and the recent structural inspection I had privately commissioned three months ago.
"The property is 414 Crestview Lane," I said. "Four bedrooms, three baths, quarter-acre lot in the historic district. No liens except the primary mortgage, which has a remaining balance of ninety-four thousand dollars. The property is titled solely in my name, Renata Vance."
Cynthia picked up the deed, studying the county recorder's stamp. A slow, appreciative whistle escaped her lips.
"Crestview is booming," she said, looking up. "Inventory is nearly nonexistent right now. If we price this at market value—say, five hundred and fifty thousand—we'll have multiple offers before the weekend."
"I don't want market value," I said, my voice steady. "Price it at four hundred and ninety thousand for a cash buyer who can close within seven days, as-is, with no inspection contingency. I want it sold immediately."
Cynthia’s eyebrows rose. "Renata, you're leaving sixty thousand dollars on the table."
"I am buying my freedom, Cynthia. Sixty thousand is a bargain."
Cynthia looked at the cut on my temple, then down at the papers. She didn't ask what had happened on the stairs. She didn't need to.
"I have two private investment buyers on my speed dial who have been waiting for a Crestview address for six months," she said, pulling a listing agreement from her drawer. "Sign here. I’ll have the photographers there by eleven."
"No photographers," I said. "There are three occupants currently living there who do not know the house is for sale. The sign does not go on the lawn. Use the private MLS network for verified institutional cash buyers. Require sight-unseen proof of funds with the offer."
Cynthia stared at me for three seconds, then a fierce, feral smile touched the corners of her mouth. "You're a very thorough woman, Renata."
"I had to be," I replied. "To survive."
From the real estate office, I took a taxi to the First National Bank branch on Main Street.
I sat with the branch manager, transferred my personal checking account to an unlisted individual account at an international credit union, and canceled the shared credit cards that Richard and Celeste had been using for ten years.
Celeste’s card had an active recurring charge for an upscale gym, two meal-delivery subscriptions, and an expensive boutique clothing rental. I had the clerk terminate every single one of them.
Then I walked across the street to Mr. Prescott’s office.
The old lawyer was waiting for me. His desk was stacked with three identical black binders.
"How is the wrist?" he asked softly, gesturing to a leather armchair.
"Hairline fracture of the scaphoid. It’ll heal in six weeks."
"We can have him arrested today, Renata. Domestic battery. Tampering with an emergency call. The police will take your statement at the hospital."
"No," I said, shaking my head slowly. "If he gets arrested, his family rallies. They hire a local defense lawyer, they claim I slipped, they tie me up in depositions and protective order hearings in this county for twelve months. I know Richard. He thrives on legal theater. I want him legally evicted from my property before he even realizes the ground has moved beneath him."
Mr. Prescott nodded slowly, opening the first binder. "The divorce petition was filed at eight-thirty this morning under seal. The summons and complaint are being served by private courier to the house at noon."
"And the medical accounting?"
"Attached as Exhibit C," Mr. Prescott said, tapping a red tab. "We are demanding immediate reimbursement of one hundred and forty-two thousand dollars from Evelyn Vance’s personal trust for medical expenses paid on her behalf without contribution from the co-heirs. If they challenge the sale of the house, that claim converts into an immediate legal lien against her private assets."
He reached into his drawer, pulled out a new, prepaid smartphone in a sealed box, and slid it across the mahogany wood.
"Your old phone is dead?"
"Threw the SIM card in a storm drain two hours ago."
"Good," Mr. Prescott said. "Now, go to the clinic on 5th Street. Get the wrist casted properly. Get the stitches. And then check into the hotel under the name I reserved for you."
He stood up, took my uninjured right hand, and held it with both of his.
"He thinks you have no family, Renata. He thinks that makes you weak."
May you like
"I used to think that too," I whispered.
"He's about to learn that a woman who survived what you survived doesn't need a family to tear down a house of cards."
