Chapter 9 - The Eviction Notice
"You have thirty minutes to vacate the property, Mr. Whitmore," Sheriff Deputy Vance announced, handing Daniel an expedited writ of possession signed by the county magistrate.
Patricia sat on the bottom step of the grand staircase, her hair disheveled, clutching a small canvas tote bag containing only her personal medication and a few family photographs. All the luxury jewelry, the furs, the designer bags she had acquired over the last five years had been tagged and impounded by the court-appointed receiver.
"Claire..." Patricia looked up at me, her voice trembling, her arrogance entirely evaporated. "Where are we supposed to go? I have nowhere to live. My bridge club... my reputation... everything is gone."
"You should have thought about that before you put a mop in my mother's hands," I said, standing tall above her. "You called her a servant, Patricia. You told her she wasn't good for anything else."
"I was stressed! Daniel told me we were broke!" Patricia sobbed, reaching out a trembling hand toward my hem. "Please, Claire. Just let me stay in the guest cottage. I'll clean the house for you! I'll do whatever you ask!"
"No," I replied, my voice cold and final. "You won't clean anything here. Because you are never stepping foot on Bennett land again."
Daniel stumbled down the stairs, his eyes bloodshot, clutching a cardboard box filled with his remaining personal paperwork. He stopped in front of me, his lips quivering.
"Claire, we took vows," Daniel whispered, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks. "In sickness and in health. For richer, for poorer. You promised to love me."
"I promised to love the man I thought you were," I said softly, looking him directly in the eyes. "I promised to love a partner who respected my family, who protected my mother, who honored my father’s legacy. But you were never that man, Daniel. You were just a parasite who mistook my patience for weakness."
Two deputies stepped up beside Daniel. "Time's up, Mr. Whitmore. Step off the property."
Daniel and Patricia were escorted out of the double doors into the gray afternoon drizzle.
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I walked out onto the grand balcony and watched as Daniel’s leased Porsche was loaded onto a flatbed tow truck. Mother and son were forced to walk down the mile-long private driveway in the rain, dragging their meager luggage behind them, while a local taxi waited at the security gate to take Patricia to a budget motel.
For the first time in five years, the air inside the Blackwood Crest manor felt completely clean.
