Chapter 6 - The Foreclosure
Fourteen days later.
The rain fell in long, heavy grey sheets over Oakridge Drive, turning the manicured lawn of number 1442 into a sea of dark, thick mud. The twin wrought-iron gates at the entrance of the driveway stood wide open, their electrical motors dead because the main power grid to the house had been shut off for non-payment sixty hours earlier.
Parked along the curve of the driveway were three massive, yellow moving vans bearing the logo of an industrial estate liquidation company.
Flynn Vance stood in the center of the grand Carrara marble foyer, wrapped in a faded blue bathrobe, a three-day growth of dark beard covering his hollow cheeks, his hair unwashed, sticking up in greasy tufts.
The house was freezing. Without the central heating system running, the air smelled damp, stale, and full of the bitter scent of wood smoke from the fireplace Flynn had tried to light using old corporate ledger printouts.
Four heavy-set men in grey canvas overalls were busy moving through the rooms, carrying out the Italian leather sofas, the hand-woven Persian rugs, and the custom dining table.
"You can't take that!" Flynn shrieked, running toward two movers who were lifting a six-foot gold-framed oil painting off the dining room wall. "That painting was a gift from my father! It’s a family heirloom!"
A tall man in a navy blue suit stepped out from the library, holding a clipboard and a heavy red pen.
"Mr. Vance," the man said flatly, pulling an official court inventory sheet from his folder. "Item 412: 19th-century oil portrait by Charles Thomas. Purchased with funds drawn from Vance Global Logistics Account #8812 on June 14th of last year. The property is subject to the federal asset seizure order issued by the United States Marshal Service."
"I am the CEO of Vance Global!" Flynn screamed, his eyes wild, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, pathetic screech that sounded completely insane. "You can't do this to me! My lawyer is filing an emergency injunction right now!"
"Your lawyer withdrew from your defense representation at four o'clock yesterday afternoon, Mr. Vance," the man replied, not even looking up from his clipboard. "Due to three hundred and forty thousand dollars in unpaid legal retainer fees."
The front double doors opened with a loud, wooden groan.
Fiona Vance stepped into the foyer, shivering violently inside a thin plastic rain poncho she had bought at a gas station. Her copper hair was flattened by the rain, clinging to her scalp like wet wires, her face completely pale, completely devoid of any makeup.
"Flynn," Fiona whimpered, her hands trembling as she clutched a wet paper bag containing two medicine bottles against her chest. "Flynn... the bank just declined my debit card at the pharmacy. They said... they said my personal checking account has been attached by the federal court."
Flynn turned slowly, staring at his mother with hollow, empty eyes. "What about Dad's trust account?"
"It’s gone, Flynn," Fiona sobbed, dropping the paper bag onto the cold marble floor. "It’s all gone! The doctors at St. Jude said if we don't pay a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit by tomorrow morning, they're transferring Arthur to a state long-term care facility in Columbia! A state facility, Flynn! Where they put vagrants!"
A heavy, silver Mercedes Maybach pulled up to the front steps outside, its smooth engine humming quietly through the sound of the rain.
The rear door opened.
Phoebe stepped out, holding a large black umbrella, stepping carefully over the muddy puddles on the flagstones, and walked into the open foyer.
She didn't look at the movers. She didn't look at the bare walls or the rolled-up carpets. She walked straight up to Flynn, pulling a single, white sealed envelope from her coat pocket.
"Flynn Vance," Phoebe said, her voice clear and razor-sharp against the sound of the storm outside.
Flynn took a step back, his eyes darting toward the door as if he wanted to run, but there was nowhere left to go. "What... what is that?"
"This is your formal thirty-day notice of eviction from 1442 Oakridge Drive," Phoebe stated, holding out the envelope. "The property was acquired at public auction yesterday morning by the Croft Estate Trust for the sum of four point two million dollars."
Flynn’s mouth opened and closed like a fish dying on a dry riverbank. "She... she bought the house?"
"She owned the mortgage before she bought the house, Mr. Vance," Phoebe corrected calmly. "Now she owns the land, the structures, and every physical asset contained within the boundary lines. You have until six o'clock this evening to collect your personal clothing and vacate the premises."
Fiona let out a high-pitched, terrifying scream, throwing herself forward, her fingers clawing at Phoebe’s coat sleeve. "You cold-hearted bitch! Where is she? Where is Mabel? Tell her to face us! Tell her to come here and look at what she did to this family!"
Phoebe gently, effortlessly detached Fiona’s wet fingers from her sleeve, stepping back with a look of mild disgust.
"Mrs. Vance," Phoebe said softly, looking down at the older woman with absolute contempt. "Mabel Croft is currently attending a board of directors meeting on the forty-second floor of the Palmetto Tower. She has no interest in looking at you."
Phoebe turned on her heel, her leather shoes clicking cleanly against the Carrara tile, and walked back out into the rain toward her waiting car.
Flynn stood alone in the center of the vast, empty foyer.
He looked down at the white Carrara marble floor beneath his bare, filthy feet.
Right there—three inches from the bottom stair—was a small, faint brown stain that the movers' heavy boots hadn't managed to clean away.
May you like
It was the spot where my blood had spilled two weeks ago.
Flynn dropped to his knees on the cold stone, his hands clutching his face, and began to weep—loud, pathetic, desperate sobs that echoed off the high, empty ceiling of the house he had thought was his.
