Chapter 4 - The Court of Public Opinion
"Go ahead, Austin!" Kelsey mocked, thrusting the phone higher as she paced the bottom of the grand staircase. "Tell my three thousand followers why your four-year-old nephew Leo doesn't deserve a bed tonight! Tell them why Maya has to sleep in her car seat while you sit in five empty bedrooms all by yourself!"
Behind her, through the open front doors, I could see Ryan violently tossing plastic storage bins into the back of the U-Haul, his jaw set in a furious, humiliated clench. Outside, the headlights of his SUV cut through the dark, where two small faces were pressed against the tinted glass, watching their parents unravel.
I didn't flinch, and I didn't hide my face. I walked down the stairs calmly, step by step, keeping my hands visible, my expression completely impassive. When dealing with a narcissist holding a camera, any sign of emotion is fuel.
"Kelsey," I said calmly, stopping three steps from the bottom so I stood slightly above her. "You are live-streaming inside a private residence without the owner's consent. Furthermore, you are using your minor children as props in an attempted extortion."
"Extortion?!" she shrieked to the phone screen, performing for her virtual audience with theatrical gasps. "Did you hear that, everyone?! My brother-in-law is calling us criminals! We gave up our home because his parents gave us this house! We are being thrown out like garbage!"
"Show them the deed, Kelsey," I said evenly.
She paused, her theatrical expression slipping for a fraction of a second.
"Show them the blue folder on the counter," I continued, pointing a steady finger toward it. "Turn your camera around and show your three thousand followers the county deed that proves I paid one million and fifty thousand dollars of my own earned income for this house. Explain to them why you thought you were entitled to move into a property you never bought, never rented, and never held a title to."
Comments were already flying across her screen at lightning speed. I could see the little hearts and angry face emojis bubbling up, but I could also see the text shifts: *Wait, did Austin buy it?* ... *Whose house is it?* ... *Why didn't you check the papers?*
Kelsey’s thumb twitched nervously. The narrative was slipping. In her rush to weaponize public sympathy, she hadn't anticipated that I would remain completely unflappable on camera.
"You’re a monster," she hissed, lowering the phone slightly so the microphone wouldn't pick up her whisper. "You’ve always looked down on us. You think because you went to college and sit behind a laptop all day that you’re better than Ryan. He works with his hands! He builds things!"
"Ryan hasn't worked forty hours a week in three years, Kelsey. Dad has been cutting him fake paychecks from the hardware store to keep him afloat, and you know it."
Her eyes widened in genuine panic. That struck a nerve. The comments on her screen were pouring in faster now, demanding answers about what I meant. Panicked, Kelsey violently jabbed the screen with her nail and ended the broadcast.
"Get out," I said quietly.
"We need until tomorrow morning," she pleaded, her bravado suddenly crumbling into a frantic, desperate whine. "The kids are exhausted, Austin. Just let us sleep in the basement. Just one night! We have nowhere else to go tonight. The motels are two hundred dollars a night and our credit cards are maxed out!"
"You should have thought about that before your mother-in-law convinced you to break your lease on a lie," I replied, feeling not an ounce of guilt. If I gave them twelve hours, they would unpack their bags again. They would call Eleanor. Eleanor would arrive at dawn with a locksmith and a corrupt notary, and I would be embroiled in an unlawful detainer lawsuit for the next year.
"Ten minutes, Kelsey. Then I call the county sheriff."
She cursed at me, a string of vile, gutter profanity that echoed through the empty home, before storming out into the chilly night air.
I walked out onto the front porch, watching under the floodlights as Ryan slammed the roll-up door of the U-Haul and secured the latch with a vicious snap. He walked up to me, his chest heaving, his face streaked with sweat and dirt.
"You won this round, Austin," Ryan spat, tossing the contractor brass key onto the concrete at my feet. "Congratulations. You’re king of the castle. But you just destroyed this family. Dad will never speak to you again. Mom is already having chest pains over this. If anything happens to her tonight, her blood is on your hands."
"Mom’s chest pains are convenient, Ryan," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "Ask Dad about the IRS liens on the store. Ask him why he tried to get a power of attorney over my bank accounts three weeks ago."
Ryan froze, the key lying between us on the cold stone. "What are you talking about?"
"Ask him yourself," I said. "Because while you’re out here playing the victim, our parents were planning to use this house to take out a second mortgage to pay off their own debts and leave you holding the bag when the foreclosure hit."
"You’re lying," Ryan stammered, but his voice lacked conviction. The seed of doubt had been planted. He knew our father’s business was struggling; he just hadn't realized how deep the rot went.
"Get off my property, Ryan," I said softly. "Before I stop acting like your brother and start acting like the victim of a felony home invasion."
Ryan stared at me for five agonizing seconds, searching my eyes for any sign of the docile, yielding older brother he had spent his life stepping on. He found nothing. With an angry, defeated grunt, he turned on his heel, climbed into the cab of the U-Haul, and revved the engine.
The truck rumbled down the driveway, followed closely by Kelsey’s SUV. The red taillights faded into the darkness of Evergreen Ridge, disappearing past the tree line.
I stood on the porch alone. The crisp night air filled my lungs.
May you like
I picked up the brass contractor key from the concrete, went inside, and locked the heavy front doors. But I knew this wasn't over. Eleanor Vance had spent thirty years ruling our family with an iron fist of guilt and emotional manipulation. She wasn't going to let a million-dollar prize slip through her fingers without burning down everything in her wake.
***
