Chapter 4 - Andrew's Return and the Performance
For ten agonizing seconds, the only sound in the house was the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock. Andrew stood frozen in the doorway, his mouth slightly open, the color draining from his face so rapidly I thought he might faint. His eyes darted frantically from the photos of his mistress, to the deed of the house, and finally to me, sitting perfectly still at the end of the table with my coffee mug.
"Claire..." he choked out, his voice an octave higher than normal. "What... what is all this?"
Before I could answer, Lorraine pushed past him into the dining room, scowling. "Andrew, why are you standing there like a statue? Did you hear me? Your wife was terribly abusive to me this morning. She completely disrespected—"
Lorraine stopped. She finally noticed the layout on the table. However, her eyes didn't go to the photos of the affair first; they went straight to the glowing, legal seal on the property deed. She squinted, leaning forward.
"What is this nonsense?" she demanded, pointing a trembling, wrinkled finger at the green folder. "Claire, what sort of fake paperwork have you printed out?"
I took a slow sip of my coffee, relishing the heat. I set the mug down gently.
"It's not fake, Lorraine," I said, my voice conversational and light. "That is the official deed to this house. The house I bought with my grandfather's inheritance. The house that is, legally and entirely, in my name alone."
Lorraine scoffed loudly, an ugly, grating sound. She turned to her son. "Andrew, tell her to stop this ridiculous lying. Tell her this is your house! You told me you bought this house for the two of you!"
Andrew didn't move. He didn't speak. He was staring at the photo of him kissing Jessica on the deck, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
"Andrew!" Lorraine barked, her patience thinning. "Defend yourself!"
"He can't, Lorraine," I interjected smoothly. "Because his credit was so terrible when we got married that the bank wouldn't even let him co-sign a loan for a used Honda, let alone a four-bedroom colonial. Look at the paper next to the deed. It's a post-nuptial agreement. Andrew signed away any and all rights to this property seven years ago."
Lorraine's face went through a spectacular range of emotions: confusion, denial, and finally, a deep, panicked dread. She grabbed Andrew by the sleeve of his jacket. "Andrew? Is this true? Have you been lying to me for years?"
Andrew swallowed hard, refusing to look at his mother. He finally looked at me, attempting to deploy the wounded, puppy-dog eyes that had worked on me for the better part of a decade.
"Claire, baby, please," he whispered, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Let's just talk about this. The photos... they look bad, I know. But it's not what you think. She means nothing to me. It was just a stupid, one-time mistake."
"A one-time mistake?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow. I reached out and tapped the pile of photos. "According to David Vance, Jessica's husband—who hand-delivered these to me this morning, by the way—this 'mistake' has been going on for over six months. He hired a private investigator."
Andrew physically recoiled, as if I had struck him. "Her... her husband came here?"
"He did. He was quite upset. Apparently, Jessica plans to divorce him on Monday because she thinks she's going to move into this big, beautiful house with her wealthy, successful new man." I smiled, a cold, empty expression. "I wonder how Jessica is going to react when she finds out her wealthy new man is actually broke, owns zero real estate, and is about to be homeless."
"Homeless?" Lorraine shrieked, clutching her chest. "You cannot throw my son out! This is his home!"
"It was his home, conditionally," I corrected her. I reached for my phone, unlocked it, and swiveled the screen toward Lorraine. The bright display showed the high-resolution photo of the massive dent in my headboard and the cast-iron pot on the floor.
"This morning, you crossed a line from being an irritating nuisance to a physical threat, Lorraine," I said, my voice hardening into steel. "You threw a piece of iron at my head while I was in bed. If I had moved an inch, you would have killed me."
Andrew gasped, whipping his head to look at his mother. "Mom! What did you do?"
"It slipped!" Lorraine shrieked, suddenly backing away from the table, her hands trembling. "I was just trying to wake her up! It slipped from my hands!"
"A ten-pound pot doesn't slip horizontally across a room at head height," I said flatly. "You tried to hurt me. And that was the absolute last mistake you will ever make under my roof."
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I stood up from the table, smoothing my jeans. I looked at the two of them—the lying, cowardly son and the abusive, entitled mother. They looked small, pathetic, and entirely cornered.
"I have already packed your bags," I announced. "They are waiting in the upstairs hallway. You have exactly fifteen minutes to take them to Andrew's car and leave my property forever."
