Chapter 6 - THE EVICTION NOTICEThe next morning, the snow returned, blanketing the manicured lawns of the upscale suburb in a blanket of absolute, freezing white.
Inside the house, the atmosphere was funereal. Peyton had finally emerged from the master bedroom, her designer makeup smeared, packing her expensive handbags into generic cardboard boxes provided by the sheriff's deputies. She didn't look at Gianna or me as we walked through the living room. She didn't dare.
"This isn't over," Peyton hissed under her breath as she dragged a rolling suitcase toward the front door. "My uncle is a federal judge in Chicago. You’ll be hearing from his legal team before the ink is dry on this ridiculous stunt."
"Tell your uncle that federal judges usually frown upon obstruction of justice and wire fraud," I replied calmly, holding the front door open for her. "Have a safe trip back to your parents' basement, Peyton."
She slammed her suitcase against the doorframe, cursed under her breath, and stormed down the snowy walkway to a waiting taxi.
Austin followed ten minutes later. He carried two black trash bags containing his clothes, his designer watches stripped from his wrists, his hair unwashed and matted. He stopped at the threshold, looking out at the freezing street where his pristine sports car had already been impounded by the county bailiff.
He turned to look at Gianna, who was sitting quietly by the fireplace with a cup of warm tea, her hands wrapped in soothing medical gauze provided by the paramedics.
"Mom," Austin pleaded, his voice breaking with theatrical desperation. "Please. You can't let them do this. I'm your only son."
Gianna set her teacup down on the antique mahogany table. She looked at him not with anger, not with hatred, but with a profound, chilling indifference that hurt him far more than any scream could have.
"My son died the day he watched me scrub his floor and told me I owed him for existing," Gianna said softly, her voice steady and clear. "You are just a stranger trespassing in our house, Austin. And your time is up."
Without another word, Austin turned and walked out into the snow, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind him with a dull, final thud.
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I walked over, turned the deadbolt, and listened to the satisfying, mechanical click of the lock engaging.
For the first time in fifteen years, the house felt quiet. It felt safe. It felt like home again.
