Chapter 9 - The Eviction
At 8:00 AM the following morning, a light rain was falling over Pacific Heights.
Two large yellow moving trucks were parked in the circular driveway of 412 Grandview Avenue. A team of six uniformed bailiffs was systematically clearing out the house, placing boxes of personal items onto the wet pavement.
Standing on the sidewalk under a black umbrella were Weston and Claudia Prescott.
Claudia was wearing an old trench coat over her nightgown, her hair unstyled, her face pale and wrinkled without her expensive creams. She was screaming hysterically at the chief bailiff.
"You can't do this! This is my son's house! This marble was imported from Italy! Do you know who I am?! I am Claudia Prescott!"
"Ma'am, step back from the vehicle," the bailiff said calmly, placing a hand on his belt. "This property now belongs to Vance-Caldwell Real Estate Management. Your personal clothing and toiletries have been packed in those three boxes on the curb. All fine art, antique furniture, and vehicles parked in the garage were purchased using company credit facilities and have been seized under the foreclosure order."
"My car?!" Weston shrieked, looking toward the garage where his custom Porsche was being strapped onto a flatbed tow truck. "That's my car!"
"It was registered under Prescott Global, sir," the bailiff replied flatly. "And Prescott Global belongs to Chairwoman Vance-Caldwell."
A sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb, its tinted windows rolling down smoothly.
I sat in the leather back seat, dressed in an immaculate ivory cashmere suit, holding a hot cup of coffee.
Weston saw me and sprinted toward the car, slamming his hands against the window. "Elowen! Elowen, please! Look at my mother! She’s sixty-five years old! You can't leave her on the street in the rain!"
I rolled down the window two inches, looking at him through the narrow gap.
"Where are you going to stay, Weston?" I asked quietly.
"I... I don't know!" he sobbed, rain pouring down his face, soaking his hair. "We don't have any money left! All our cards were declined at the hotel this morning! We don't have anywhere to go!"
I reached into my leather bag and pulled out a single, crumpled item.
It was the kitchen apron I had thrown into the trash can the night before—the one stained with lemon juice.
I passed it through the narrow gap in the window, letting it fall onto the wet pavement at his feet.
"You can stay wherever sixty-two million dollars of debt lets you stay, Weston," I said, my voice completely devoid of hatred, anger, or warmth. It was the voice of a stranger who owed him nothing. "And if you need money for food... I hear there are plenty of houses in Pacific Heights looking for someone to wash their dishes."
I rolled the window back up.
May you like
"Drive," I told Arthur.
The Maybach pulled smoothly away from the curb, its tires splashing through the rain puddles, leaving Weston and his mother standing beside three cardboard boxes on the wet street, watching the taillights of my car disappear into the fog.
