Chapter 6 - The Trap at Fairview Lane
By Tuesday evening, three days after the fall, I was able to stand with the aid of a walking frame, despite the fierce, burning pain in my hips. My determination to move was an obsession; every step was a strike against the helplessness Evan had tried to inflict upon me.
While I remained under guard at the hospital, I authorized Arthur to execute the second phase of our strategy.
Evan was currently residing at our house on Fairview Lane, convinced that the temporary restraining order merely kept me away from him while he maintained legal control over our shared property.
At 7:00 PM, a moving truck pulled up to the front driveway of 42 Fairview Lane.
Four heavy-set men, accompanied by Arthur Pendelton and a court-appointed sheriff's deputy, stepped onto the front porch.
Evan opened the door, dressed in a bathrobe, a glass of scotch in his hand. He looked disheveled, the stress of the past seventy-two hours finally beginning to erode his polished exterior.
"What the hell is this?" Evan demanded, staring at the sheriff's deputy.
"Mr. Vance," Deputy Miller said, stepping forward with a writ of immediate property possession. "Under North Carolina marital property statutes and the terms of the Pendelton Family Trust deed, Mrs. Clare Vance has exercised her right to exclusive occupancy of this residence. You have forty-five minutes to pack your personal clothing and vacate the premises."
Evan’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. "This is my house! My name is on the mortgage!"
"Your name is listed as a secondary guarantor, Mr. Vance," Arthur interjected smoothly, holding up a copy of the deed. "The primary title is held entirely by the Pendelton Family Revocable Trust—a trust of which Clare is the sole surviving trustee. You are technically a guest."
"You old bastard!" Evan spat, stepping toward Arthur, but the deputy instantly stepped between them, his hand resting on his taser holster.
"Step back, sir," the deputy warned. "If you do not comply with the lockout order, you will be arrested for contempt of court."
Behind the deputy, the moving crew walked past Evan into the entryway.
They didn't touch the furniture. They went straight to Evan’s personal home office, opening the locked cabinets, loading his filing boxes, corporate hardware, and personal safe into heavy plastic bins under the direct supervision of a certified forensic evidence specialist.
"You can't take my work files!" Evan shouted, his voice cracking with rising panic as he watched his private records being wheeled out the front door. "That’s proprietary company data!"
"These files are subject to a subpoena issued two hours ago by the Massachusetts Financial Services Regulatory Board," Arthur said coldly. "We are simply preserving the evidence, Evan. Oh, and one more thing."
Arthur pulled a second document from his coat.
"The utility services, the internet accounts, and the security portal subscriptions for this house were registered under Clare’s name," Arthur continued. "They have all been canceled as of six o'clock this evening. I suggest you find a hotel."
Evan stood in the middle of his empty, darkened living room as the moving crew walked out, carrying the last of his office equipment.
He pulled out his phone to call Amber, but before he could dial, a text message popped up on his screen from his firm’s Managing Director:
May you like
“Evan, emergency board meeting scheduled for Thursday at 9:00 AM. Board members from New York are flying in. We’ve received an anonymous audit disclosure regarding the Wellesley shell transfers. Be prepared to explain everything.”
Evan dropped his glass of scotch. It shattered against the hardwood floor, spilling dark liquor across the floorboards—a pathetic echo of the blood he had left on the entryway tiles three nights before.
