Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
By 2:00 p.m., the front lawn of 442 Whispering Pines Drive looked like a war zone.
Three white vans belonging to an emergency eviction and storage service were parked along the curb. Movers under the supervision of a court deputy were carrying vintage mahogany armoires, crystal chandeliers, and racks of designer clothes out onto the driveway.
Neighbors had emerged from their tidy suburban homes, whispering behind manicured hedges. Evelyn Vance had spent thirty years terrorizing the neighborhood association with fines and condescension; watching her standing on the sidewalk in oversized sunglasses, clutching a small pet carrier and screaming into her phone, was an unexpected holiday spectacle.
My phone buzzed continuously in my coat pocket.
Six missed calls from Garrick.
Four from Evelyn.
Three from Garrick’s wife, Vanessa, who had never spoken more than two sentences to me in a decade.
I sat in my sensible sedan three houses down, watching the scene play out. I wasn't there out of spite; Brenda had instructed me to observe the peaceful completion of the lockout to ensure that no items listed as grandfather’s personal heirlooms were loaded into Garrick’s pickup truck.
Suddenly, Garrick spotted my car.
His face turned purple with rage. He shoved past a bewildered mover carrying a box of china and stormed down the sidewalk toward me, his heavy designer boots pounding the asphalt.
“Clara!” he bellowed, his voice echoing down the street. “Get out of that car right now!”
I rolled down my window three inches, clicking the central door locks shut with my thumb. “Keep your distance, Garrick.”
He slammed his palms against my driver’s side glass, his face inches from mine, eyes bloodshot and wild. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? You think you can humiliate Mom in front of her friends because she didn't buy your spoiled brats a few plastic toys?”
“This has nothing to do with toys, Garrick,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “This is about twenty-three years of theft.”
He flinched. Just for a fraction of a second, his swagger faltered. “What are you talking about? You’re delusional. You’re having a breakdown! Mom is the matriarch of this family!”
“GV Holdings LLC,” I said clearly.
Garrick went dead white. All the color drained from his cheeks, leaving him looking hollow and aged.
“Nevis,” I continued, never taking my eyes from his. “Eleven point four million dollars wired on December twenty-sixth. Did you really think Arthur Vance was stupid enough to leave his granddaughter unprotected?”
“You… you don't know what you're talking about,” he stammered, stepping back from the car. “That was family restructuring money. Mom approved it! She’s the trustee!”
“She’s a felon,” I corrected. “And by the end of this week, so are you.”
Before he could answer, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb behind him. Two investigators from the State Attorney General’s Financial Crimes Division stepped out, badges hanging from lanyards around their necks.
“Garrick Vance?” the taller investigator called out.
Garrick spun around, his chest heaving. “What is this? Clara, call them off! We can talk about this! We’re family!”
“You stopped being my family the moment you stole food from my children’s mouths,” I said.
May you like
I rolled up the window, shifted into drive, and pulled away from the curb, leaving my brother standing between the law and the wreckage of his stolen empire.
***
