Chapter 9 - The Eviction
"Let him come," I replied calmly into the phone. "The locks have been changed. The security cameras are live. And the minute he steps foot on my property, the officers will arrest him for violating an active restraining order."
"You think a piece of paper is going to stop him?" Tatum laughed wildly. "Vance has the master deed documents, Sloan. The ones you didn't see. The ones he hid before the wedding. You think this house is safe? Check the attic floorboards, sweetheart."
The line went dead.
I looked at Maya and Frank. Both of them had heard every word through the speakerphone.
"The attic?" Maya stood up immediately.
Frank had already pulled a high-powered tactical flashlight from his jacket. "Let’s go take a look."
We walked up the second-floor stairs to the hallway ceiling hatch that led to the attic. Vance had spent several hours up there during our first week of moving his small boxes in, claiming he was checking the insulation and setting up storage for holiday decorations. I hadn't thought twice about it at the time.
Frank pulled down the folding wooden ladder and climbed up first, sweeping the beam of light across the dusty rafters. Maya and I followed closely behind.
The attic smelled of old cedar and dry pine. Neatly stacked near the brick chimney were four plastic storage bins Vance had brought from his previous apartment.
"Tatum said floorboards," Frank muttered, stepping carefully across the exposed joists. He knelt near the corner where the chimney met the roofline. He tapped the wood with the butt of his flashlight.
A hollow, loose sound echoed back.
Frank pulled a pocketknife from his belt, slipped the blade beneath the edge of an old tongue-and-groove plank, and pried it upward. The nails gave way with a sharp screech.
Beneath the board was a shallow cavity lined with black velvet.
Inside rested a heavy, fireproof lockbox.
"Can you open it?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Give me thirty seconds," Frank said, pulling out a small set of tension wrenches and lock picks. He inserted them into the lockbox cylinder, wiggling them with practiced, surgical precision. *Click.*
The heavy metal lid swung open.
Maya gasped, shining her phone flashlight into the box.
Inside wasn't just cash. It was a treasure trove of identity theft.
There were six different state driver’s licenses, each bearing Vance’s photo, but with completely different names: *Vance Sterling, Eric Montgomery, Julian Vance, David Cole.*
Beneath the IDs lay three expired passports, each with his picture, and a stack of pre-printed title transfer forms for properties in Arizona, Colorado, and Nevada.
And resting at the very bottom of the box was an old, faded newspaper clipping dated twelve years ago.
The headline read: *LOCAL HEIRESS FOUND DEAD AFTER SHORT COURTSHIP; HUSBAND DISAPPEARS WITH TWO MILLION IN ASSETS.*
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Beneath the headline was a photograph of a younger Evelyn Montgomery standing beside a twenty-year-old Vance.
***
