Chapter 7 - A Confrontation at the Gates
By noon, the fallout from Michigan Avenue had turned into an uncontrollable wildfire.
Megan had apparently driven straight to Frank and Eleanor’s brownstone in Lincoln Park, hysterical and screaming about ruined lives, police reports, and frozen bank accounts.
Mark arrived at Zoe and Marcus’s gated estate in Lake Forest forty minutes later.
He didn't bother using the call box. He rammed his fists against the wrought-iron security gate until the private estate guards came out to detain him. Zoe instructed the guards to let him onto the driveway, but barred him from entering the main house.
I walked out onto the stone terrace, wearing a heavy cable-knit sweater, holding a thick legal folder. Zoe stood ten feet behind me, leaning against the French doors with a phone recording everything.
Mark looked like a man who had survived an explosion. His hair was disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
"Chloe!" he yelled, charging toward the stone steps until the two estate guards stepped into his path, forcing him to halt. "Have you lost your damn mind?! What did you do to Megan?!"
"I enforced the law, Mark," I said evenly.
"You shut down her store on Black Friday!" he roared, his voice cracking with rage. "Her entire inventory is locked inside! Her bank accounts are frozen! She can't even buy gas for her car! The police called her two hours ago asking her to come down to the station for an interview about an alleged child assault!"
"It isn't an alleged assault," I replied, opening the folder. I pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of Lily's face taken that morning. The purplish bruise was now distinct, the outline of four fingers clearly visible across her cheek and jawline.
I tossed the photograph onto the ground at Mark's feet.
Mark stared down at the image. For a fraction of a second, something like guilt flickered in his eyes. But then his defensive wall snapped back into place.
"She’s five years old, Chloe! Kids heal! Megan was stressed out because of the holidays! You don't call the police on your own sister-in-law! You don't try to send your husband's sister to prison!"
"Lily is *your* daughter, Mark," I said, my voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet whisper. "She cried herself to sleep last night asking me if she was a bad person. She sat in the freezing cold shivering because your father locked us out, and you—her father—stood there holding our coats and told me to apologize."
"I was trying to keep the peace!" Mark screamed, throwing his hands in the air. "You embarrassed my family! You punched Megan twice!"
"And if she ever raises a hand to my child again, I won't stop at two punches," I said. "Pick up the folder at your feet, Mark."
He hesitated, then slowly knelt down and picked up the thick blue packet lying next to the photograph of Lily.
"What is this?" he muttered.
"Divorce petition," I said. "Emergency petition for full physical and legal custody. And an eviction notice for your parents."
Mark’s head snapped up, his face utterly white. "What did you just say?"
"The Lincoln Park brownstone is owned by my family's legacy trust. Frank and Eleanor have thirty days to vacate the premises. If they aren't out by December thirty-first, the Cook County Sheriff will physically remove their belongings and place them on the curb."
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"You can't evict my parents!" Mark shrieked, taking an aggressive step forward. The two security guards immediately seized his arms, twisting him backward and forcing him to his knees. "That's their home! They've lived there for six years!"
"Because I let them live there rent-free," I said, looking down at him with nothing but disgust. "You Peterson men love to play the wealthy, noble patriarchs, don't you? But every square foot of land your family walks on was bought with my grandfather's blood, sweat, and money. You bit the hand that fed you, Mark. Now you get to starve."
