Chapter 8 - The Clearing Out
Preston’s apartment complex on the west side of town was quiet, mid-range, and entirely unremarkable—much like the life he had tried to construct on borrowed money and manipulated relationships.
When Natalie unlocked the front door using her spare key, the smell of stale coffee and unwashed laundry hit us instantly. The place was a mess. Suitcases half-zipped on the living room floor, shipping boxes stacked against the kitchenette wall, and a laptop glowing on the dining table with open tabs of real estate listings across the city.
He hadn't planned on us coming.
"Start packing," I told Natalie, handing her a roll of packing tape. "I'll watch the door."
Within twenty minutes, Natalie had her clothes, her personal documents, her laptop, and her childhood keepsakes piled high in the entryway. She didn't hesitate. Every time she dropped an item into a cardboard box, it sounded like a door slamming shut on a chapter of her life she would never revisit.
Footsteps echoed sharply in the breezeway outside.
The front door handle rattled, and Preston walked in, keys in hand, stopping dead in his tracks the moment he saw us.
His eyes darted from Natalie packing boxes to me standing by the kitchen counter. For a split second, panic flashed across his face, replaced instantly by defensive bluster.
"What the hell is going on here?" Preston demanded, dropping his keys onto the counter with a loud clatter. "Are you breaking in? Have you lost your mind?"
Natalie didn't even look up from sealing a box. "We aren't breaking in, Preston. I’m taking my things. And we know about the lien."
Preston froze. The color drained from his face so fast it looked like someone had turned off a light switch. "What... what are you talking about?"
"Miller & Halloway," I said, stepping forward from the kitchen. "Real estate litigation. We saw the retainer. We saw the fractional purchase of Thomas Vance’s old claim. And we saw your mother’s signature as financial guarantor."
Preston stared at me, his mouth parting slightly. The arrogance he had worn at the steakhouse—the casual dismissal, the demand that I pay the bill and leave—was completely gone, replaced by the cornered panic of a man whose house of cards had blown away in the wind.
"It’s... it’s business," Preston stammered, backing up a step until his legs hit the edge of the sofa. "You don't understand the market right now. Real estate is impossible. We were just trying to secure a future for us—for Natalie and me! Your house is sitting there empty, four bedrooms, rotting away while we scrape by—"
"It is my house, Preston," I said, my voice cutting through his frantic excuses with absolute finality. "It is not an investment portfolio for your failed import scams. It is not your backup plan. And it is certainly not yours to steal."
Preston’s expression twisted, the mask finally slipping entirely to reveal the petty, vindictive nature underneath. "You think you’ve won, don't you?" he sneered, his voice rising, cracking with venom. "You think you can just cut me off, lock my storage unit, and ruin my life? Without my mother's backing and my legal filings, that house is still tied up in probate ghosts from thirty years ago! You’ll spend ten thousand dollars in legal fees just to clear your own title!"
"We already paid the retainer," I replied smoothly. "And the injunction against your lien was filed twenty minutes ago."
Preston lunged forward, grabbing his phone off the counter, his fingers flying across the screen in a desperate frenzy to check his legal portal.
Before he could pull up a single document, his phone buzzed violently in his hand.
An incoming call.
Caller ID displayed: Deborah.
Preston stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the green button, the color entirely gone from his face. He looked up at me, then at Natalie, who stood silently beside her stacked boxes, watching him with cold, unbroken eyes.
May you like
"Answer it, Preston," I said softly. "Tell your mother the plan didn't work."
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