Chapter 7 - The Gate at Monument Street
Fifty yards down the tree-lined driveway, outside the heavy wrought-iron gates of the Voss estate, Linda Mercer and her daughter Marissa were sitting inside my black Mercedes G-Wagon.
The air conditioning was blasting. Linda was looking at her reflection in the vanity mirror, adjusting her lipstick with a dissatisfied pout.
“I don't know why Ethan is taking so long,” Linda complained, snapping her compact shut. “Avery’s father is probably just some stubborn old accountant who thinks he can intimidate us. Once Ethan explains that we have dinner reservations in Newton tonight, this whole ridiculous misunderstanding will be over.”
“I hope so,” Marissa said, applying a fresh layer of lip gloss while checking her phone. “The wifi out here is terrible. And I told my followers on Instagram that I’d be posting from the Newton opening tonight. This is ruining my aesthetic.”
Suddenly, the heavy iron gates began to groan as they swung outward.
Linda sat up straight, a smug smile spreading across her face. “See? I told you. They’re letting us in.”
A black Suburban rolled slowly out through the gates, stopping six feet from the front bumper of the G-Wagon.
Thomas stepped out of the driver’s door, followed by two imposing security guards in dark suits.
Behind them, walking slowly between two guards, was Ethan.
Linda’s smile vanished.
Ethan wasn't driving a car. He wasn't smiling. His eyes were blank, hollow, staring at the gravel road beneath his feet like a condemned man walking toward a scaffold.
“Ethan?” Linda scrambled out of the passenger seat, her designer purse swinging wildly from her arm. “Ethan, what’s going on?! Did you talk to her father?! When are they letting us up to the house?!”
Ethan stopped three feet from her. He looked at his mother—really looked at her—for the first time in his life. He saw the cheap, demanding greed in her eyes, the complete lack of concern for the woman who had almost died seven days ago, the relentless, suffocating pressure she had put on him for four years to prove he was better than everyone else.
“Get out of the car, Mom,” Ethan said. His voice was dead, devoid of all emotion.
“What?” Linda blinked, confused. “Get out of what car?”
“Get out of Avery’s car,” Ethan repeated, his voice rising into a sharp, ragged scream. “GET OUT OF HER CAR!”
Marissa scrambled out of the backseat, her phone held out as if to record him. “Ethan, what is wrong with you?! Why are you screaming at Mom?!”
Thomas stepped forward, his massive frame towering over both women. He pulled a silver key fob from his pocket—my spare key—and clicked it once. The G-Wagon’s doors unlocked with a sharp, heavy clack.
“This vehicle is the private property of Avery Voss,” Thomas said, his voice deep, smooth, and utterly unyielding. “Your bags have already been removed from the trunk and placed on the curb.”
He pointed toward three designer suitcases sitting on the grass beside the drainage ditch.
“You can’t do that!” Linda shrieked, her face turning a bright, blotchy red. “My son owns this car! It’s registered under Mercer Hospitality Group!”
“Mercer Hospitality Group was placed into involuntary Chapter 7 liquidation thirty minutes ago,” Thomas replied calmly, opening the driver’s door of the G-Wagon. “All corporate assets have been seized by court order. If you touch this vehicle, you will be arrested for grand theft auto.”
One of the security guards reached into the driver’s side, retrieved Linda’s leather handbag from the console, and handed it to her with a cold, professional bow.
“Ethan!” Linda turned on her son, grabbing his arm, her nails digging through his linen shirt. “Ethan, do something! Call your lawyer! Call the police! Tell them these people are stealing your property!”
Ethan pulled his arm away from her touch with a look of pure disgust.
“They’re not stealing anything, Mom,” Ethan whispered, staring at the dirt. “We don't own anything. We never did.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“Avery’s father owns everything,” Ethan wept, sinking onto his knees right there on the public road outside the iron gates. “He owns the restaurants. He owns the loans. He owns the building. He owns the car. I have four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in personal debt, and my bank accounts are frozen.”
Linda froze. Her face drained of all color, her lips trembling as the magnitude of what her son was saying finally tore through her thick wall of denial.
“No...” Linda stammered. “No... but... but what about our hotel in Boston? What about our dinner reservations? What about my trip?!”
Thomas climbed into the driver’s seat of my G-Wagon, started the engine—the deep, familiar roar of the V8 echoing off the stone walls—and backed the vehicle neatly through the iron gates, which immediately began to swing shut behind him.
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The iron bars clicked into their heavy electronic locks with a final, booming metallic thud that rang down the empty lane.
Left standing on the side of the country road, surrounded by three suitcases, eighteen miles from the nearest train station, were Ethan, Linda, and Marissa Mercer.
