Chapter 5 - The Front Door Ambush
I scrambled back through the furnace room plywood panel, my boots sliding against the damp earth of the crawlspace.
Above me, Emmett’s frantic, heavy footsteps thundered across the ground floorboards.
"Renata!" he screamed, his voice vibrating with unhinged fury.
"Come out of the shadows right now! You don't know what you're interfering with!"
I pulled myself rapidly through the tight crawlspace opening, ignoring the sharp stones cutting into my knees.
I emerged into the unfinished basement, covered in dust and cobwebs, clutching my backpack tightly against my chest.
I knew I couldn't run up the primary basement stairs; Emmett would be waiting at the top of the landing.
Fortunately, this historic Queen Anne house still possessed its original exterior storm cellar doors.
I sprinted toward the far corner of the basement, where a pair of rotting wooden cellar steps led up to the backyard patio.
The heavy iron slide bolt on the storm doors was rusted, covered in layers of dark orange oxidation.
I grabbed a heavy steel crowbar from the foundation wall and wedged the beveled tip beneath the iron latch.
I threw my entire body weight against the steel bar, grunting through clenched teeth.
With a violent, grinding snap, the rusted bolt gave way, splintering the ancient wood frame.
I shoved the twin wooden doors upward into the pouring morning rain.
Cold rainwater splashed across my face, washing away the dust and spiderwebs as I scrambled onto the wet grass.
I didn't stop to catch my breath.
I sprinted around the perimeter of the boxwood hedges toward the gravel driveway where my modest blue hatchback was parked.
As I rounded the corner of the garage, Emmett burst through the kitchen side door, holding an umbrella he didn't even bother to open.
His expensive Italian wool suit was getting soaked, his slicked-back hair falling apart in the deluge.
When he saw me running toward my car with the canvas backpack, his face twisted into an expression of feral desperation.
"Renata! Stop right there!" he bellowed, charging across the gravel driveway like a sprinter.
I reached into my raincoat pocket, clicked the remote unlock button, and heard the car doors chirp.
I ripped the driver's side door open, threw the heavy backpack onto the passenger seat, and dove behind the steering wheel.
Before I could pull the door shut, Emmett’s soaking-wet leather shoe wedged itself violently into the door jamb.
His large hand gripped the top of the window frame, his knuckles white, his veins bulging along his neck.
"You aren't going anywhere with my property files," Emmett hissed, leaning his face inches from mine through the opening.
Rainwater dripped from his nose onto my dashboard.
His eyes were wide, manic, completely stripped of the loving husband persona he had performed for four long years.
"Get your hand off my car, Emmett," I said, my voice eerily calm as I slid the ignition key into the slot.
"Listen to me, you stupid girl," he snarled, trying to reach his other hand inside to snatch the keys.
"You think taking some papers changes anything?"
"The mobile notary log is already logged in the county digital registry!"
"The deed will be formally rubber-stamped at twelve o'clock on Friday!"
"You're an unemployed nobody with zero financial backing!"
"You spend eight months wiping my mother’s ass because you're weak, you're soft, and you crave a family that doesn't want you!"
"Give me the backpack, sign the Florida wire transfer, and I might leave you ten thousand dollars to rent a studio apartment!"
I looked at the man I had loved.
I looked at the mouth that had kissed my forehead while planning to throw me onto the street like discarded garbage.
There was no sorrow left inside my chest.
There was only the ice-cold, surgical precision of a woman who had survived eight months of psychological warfare.
"You're right about one thing, Emmett," I whispered, staring directly into his manic blue eyes.
"I spent eight months wiping your mother’s ass."
"And that gave me plenty of time to learn exactly what kind of cowards you both are."
Without warning, I reached into the cup holder and grabbed the pressurized canister of industrial pepper spray.
It was the heavy-duty defensive spray Emmett himself had bought me last winter, insisting I keep it in the car for "protection."
I leveled the red nozzle directly at his face and depressed the heavy plastic trigger.
A thick, orange stream of oleoresin capsicum fired squarely into Emmett’s wide, unblinking eyes.
A sound tore out of his throat that sounded like a wounded animal.
He dropped to his knees in the wet gravel, clutching his face with both hands, screaming in blinding, searing agony.
"My eyes! You blinded me, you crazy bitch! My eyes!"
I slammed the car door shut, locked the deadbolts, and threw the transmission into reverse.
Tires spun on the wet gravel, spraying stones against the garage siding as I backed out into the street.
Through the rain-streaked rear window, I saw Lorna Vance standing on the front porch.
The frail, dying invalid was holding a heavy cast-iron skillet, screaming silent curses into the rain, shaking her fist at my retreating car.
I put the car into drive, stomped on the gas pedal, and shot down the suburban boulevard.
My hands on the steering wheel were perfectly steady.
They thought the battle was about surviving until Friday.
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They didn't know that my first destination wasn't the police station, and it wasn't a cheap motel.
My destination was the private law office of Arthur Sterling—my late grandmother’s lifelong estate attorney.
