Chapter 7 - The Home Clearing
At nine o'clock that night, I arrived back at the house in Oakridge.
The long paved driveway was empty. Julian’s personal possessions—his golf clubs, his custom suit racks, his high-end audio equipment—were still inside the house, exactly as he had left them when he rushed out yesterday afternoon to go to his engagement party.
I walked through the heavy front entrance, switching on the overhead chandelier in the grand foyer.
The house smelled of old roses and expensive candle wax—a scent Julian had insists on buying from an upscale boutique downtown. To me, it felt like walking into a museum dedicated to a life that had never actually belonged to me.
Arthur had sent four young groundskeepers from the estate management team to help me. They stood respectfully in the hallway, holding large industrial moving boxes and tape dispensers.
"Every room upstairs, Arthur," I instructed gently, walking toward the main staircase. "All of Mr. Vance’s clothing, his watches, his personal electronics, his books. Pack them clearly and label the boxes."
"Where should we send them, Miss Nora?" Arthur asked.
"Send them to his cousin Peter’s office downtown," I said. "He can collect them there."
For the next three hours, the house was filled with the rhythmic sound of packing tape peeling from rolls and cardboard boxes being sealed shut.
I walked into the master bedroom, opening the large walk-in closet. Half of the space was filled with Julian’s custom-tailored suits, lined up in precise color coordination from dark navy to light grey.
I reached out, pulled the first suit off the rack, and tossed it onto the center of the bed.
Then the second. Then the third.
With every suit I threw onto the pile, I felt a layer of invisible weight lifting off my shoulders. Ten years of adjusting my life to accommodate his pride, ten years of keeping quiet so he could feel important, ten years of playing the supportive, silent wife while he plotted to rob my family—all of it boiled down to a pile of expensive cloth sitting on a mattress.
By midnight, the master bedroom was completely stripped of his presence. His nightstand was empty. His framed magazine covers were removed from the walls, leaving small dark squares on the paint where the sun hadn't reached them.
I sat down on the edge of the bare bed, looking around the large, quiet room.
My phone chimed on the table beside me.
It was a text message from a local number I didn't recognize.
Nora, please. My lawyer says I can't contact you directly, but I’m staying at a motel near the highway. I don't have enough cash to pay for the week. My personal cards are all declined. Can you at least release five thousand dollars from the secondary account so I can pay my legal fees? I have nowhere else to go.
I stared at the screen for three seconds.
May you like
Then I tapped the settings icon, selected the number, and pressed Block Contact.
I set the phone down, pulled the soft down duvet over my shoulders, and rested my head against the clean white pillows. For the first time in ten years, I fell asleep within five minutes, undisturbed by the sound of anyone else's breathing.
