Chapter 4 - THE MOTHER'S DESPERATIONWhile Gregory was sweating through his first night in a holding cell, Patricia Vance was busy waging a very different kind of war.
By Thursday afternoon, she had camped out in the lobby of my condominium building, cornering my neighbors, the building superintendent, and anyone else who would listen. She was armed with printed flyers accusing me of elder abuse, domestic violence, and psychological torture.
"She's a monster!" Patricia shrieked at the building manager, waving a stack of forged medical bills in the air. "She beat my son! She locked him out of his own home! Open her door right now, or I'll call the media!"
The building manager, a stern man named Mr. Henderson who had known me for six years, crossed his arms and stared down at her with undisguised contempt.
"Mrs. Vance, I’ve known Eleanor since she bought her unit. She feeds my cat when I travel, she pays her dues early, and the only time I've ever heard a loud noise from her apartment was when your son decided to play bowling with her dining room table."
"You don't understand!" Patricia sobbed, dropping the act of the fierce matriarch and switching instantly to a theatrical, tearful performance. "We needed that money! Gregory's gambling debts... they were going to kill him! If she doesn't drop the charges and sign over the deed, loan sharks are going to take everything!"
A low, calm voice echoed from the elevator lobby.
"Then I suggest you start liquidating your own jewelry, Patricia."
Patricia spun around. I stepped out of the elevator, flanked by two armed private security guards I had hired that morning. I wore a tailored charcoal pantsuit, sunglasses perched on top of my head, and carried my laptop bag like a briefcase.
"You!" Patricia lunged forward, her fingernails clawing toward my face.
Before she could take two steps, my security guards intercepted her, pinning her arms gently but firmly to her sides.
"Unhand me, you thugs!" she screamed, thrashing wildly.
I stopped two feet away from her, looking down with clinical detachment.
"You thought you were marrying your son off to a quiet, obedient little housewife who would work fifty hours a week, hand over her paycheck, and swallow whatever sleeping pills you slipped into her evening tea," I said, my voice cutting through the lobby chatter.
Patricia went dead silent. Her jaw slackened.
"How... how do you know about the tea?" she whispered, the color draining entirely from her face.
"Because, Patricia, when you break into someone's home to plant forged documents two days before a wedding, you should check if the homeowner's smart-home ecosystem includes automated pharmaceutical inventory scanners," I lied smoothly, watching her panic peak. "Every pill you touched was logged, analyzed, and matched to your fingerprints on the bottle."
May you like
I stepped past her, pausing at the glass revolving doors.
"Oh, and by the way? Your mortgage on your suburban home? It was underwritten by Sterling & Hayes. Since Gregory's accounts were just frozen and liquidated under clause fourteen... foreclosure notices are being nailed to your front door as we speak. Enjoy being homeless."
