Chapter 5 - Serving the Notice
Monday morning arrived crisp and bright. I dropped the girls off at school with an extra hug and drove straight to downtown Columbus. Denise Harper was waiting for me in her glass-walled office. She poured me a cup of black coffee and handed me a thick manila folder. “They defaulted,” Denise said simply. “I checked the property records. Not only did they not sell the lake house, but Harold took out a second mortgage on it six months ago.”
I closed my eyes. “Nathan knew,” I said. “He had to know.” Denise agreed but assured me it didn't matter. The promissory note was backed by a registered lien on their primary residence, giving us the legal right to call the full balance, plus accrued interest, immediately. I told her to do it. Denise warned me that once she filed it, there was no going back; it would be full-scale war. I replied, “Denise, on Thursday, Margaret told a room full of people my daughters were worthless because they aren't boys. Burn it down.”
Denise smiled a sharp, predatory grin. She read from the top page, “Notice of Default and Intent to Foreclose,” and slid the document across the desk. I signed my name with a steady hand. A courier was dispatched by noon. At exactly 2:15 PM, a certified process server walked up the brick pathway of Margaret and Harold Bennett’s beautiful, traditional home. He knocked on the heavy oak door. Margaret opened it, likely expecting a package or a neighbor. Instead, she was handed a dense stack of legal documents demanding $342,000 in principal and back interest. It was payable immediately, or the house would be seized and auctioned by the bank on behalf of my corporate entity.
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My phone started ringing at 2:30 PM. First Nathan. Then Harold. Then William. I let them all go to voicemail. I sat at my desk, looking out over the billing room where eighteen hardworking women were processing claims and making a living. My company. My money. My rules.
At 4:00 PM, the glass doors to my office building swung open violently. Nathan and his mother marched past the receptionist. My assistant, Pam, stood up, but I waved her down through the glass partition. I pressed a button beneath my desk to start a voice recording on my computer, then opened my office door and let them in. Margaret’s face was purple with rage, and Nathan looked terrified. “What is this?” Margaret shrieked, slamming the legal documents onto my desk. I looked at them calmly and said, “That is a bill, Margaret. I run a billing company. Surely you understand the concept.”
