Chapter 8 - Blue Lights and Cold Hard Facts
Twenty minutes later, two sheriff’s cruisers swept up the driveway, their red and blue emergency lights splashing across the frosted windows like carnival strobes.
Brandon threw open the front door, his eyes bloodshot, his tie loosened, looking every bit like a man coming apart at the seams.
“Officers! Thank God!” Brandon yelled before the deputies could even reach the porch. “I need you to issue an all-points bulletin immediately! My mother, Eleanor Vance, has fled the premises with all my property! She’s stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars in furniture, silver, and liquid assets! I want her arrested for grand larceny and elder abuse!”
Deputy Miller, an experienced officer who had known Richard Vance from his twenty years on the town planning board, took a slow, measuring look at Brandon. He glanced past him into the freezing, barren house.
“Mr. Vance,” Miller said evenly, resting his thumbs on his duty belt. “Calm down. Who owns this property?”
“I do!” Brandon shouted, his chest heaving. “This is the Vance Estate! I live here!”
Deputy Miller pulled a small black tablet from his jacket pocket. He tapped the screen several times, adjusting his glasses.
“That’s strange,” Miller said calmly. “Because according to the county assessor’s real-time property database, this parcel—all twelve acres and the residence—is registered solely to the *Richard and Eleanor Vance Irrevocable Living Trust*. Eleanor Vance is listed as the sole surviving Trustee and primary deed holder. Your name does not appear on this title, Mr. Vance.”
“That’s an outdated filing!” Vanessa shouted from the doorway, her arms crossed against the cold. “Brandon is the heir! He has power of attorney!”
“He *had* limited financial proxy three years ago,” a crisp, cultured voice spoke up from behind the deputies.
Arthur Hayes stepped out from the shadows near the garage, wearing a thick wool trench coat and holding a leather briefcase. Beside him stood a certified process server.
“Arthur!” Brandon gasped, his voice cracking. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Doing my job, Brandon,” Arthur said with chilling calm, walking up the steps. “As Eleanor Vance’s legal counsel and executor of the Vance Family Trust, I am here to formally serve you with this Writ of Immediate Ejectment and Restraining Order, signed three hours ago by Judge Thomas in emergency chambers.”
The process server stepped forward and slapped a thick packet of white legal papers directly against Brandon’s chest. Brandon instinctively caught it, staring down at the crimson wax seal of the county court.
“You can’t do this!” Brandon stammered, his eyes bulging. “It’s Christmas Day! You can’t evict someone on Christmas!”
“I am not evicting a tenant, Brandon,” Arthur explained coolly, looking at him over his spectacles. “Under state law, a tenant requires a thirty-day notice. But you are not a tenant. You have never paid rent. You have never signed a lease. You have been residing here as an authorized houseguest at the sole discretion of the Trustee.”
Arthur pointed down at the paperwork in Brandon’s shaking hands.
“Due to documented evidence of elder financial exploitation, unauthorized liquidation of trust assets, and verbal threats recorded by your mother over the last six months, your license to occupy these premises has been revoked immediately for cause. Judge Thomas has granted Eleanor a temporary protective order. You have twenty minutes to collect your personal clothing and leave this property.”
May you like
“And if I don’t?” Brandon spat, balling his fists.
Deputy Miller rested his right hand firmly on the handle of his sidearm. “If you don’t, Mr. Vance, you spend Christmas night in a holding cell down at the county precinct. The choice is entirely yours.”
