Chapter 3 - Returning to the Scene
Before taking Sarah and Leo up to the cabin, I needed to see the crime scene with my own eyes.
I left Sarah under the care of Martha and Vance’s head paralegal at a secure private residence downtown, took Vance’s junior associate, a sharp young lawyer named Marcus, and drove my F-250 straight to the Maple Street townhouse.
The afternoon light was dying, casting long, bruised-purple shadows across the snow-covered suburban neighborhood. The townhouse sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac.
When I pulled up to the curb, my headlights illuminated a scene that made my blood run hot.
Four black heavy-duty trash bags were piled against the curb near a snowbank. Beside them lay a shattered wooden picture frame, its glass reflecting the yellow beam of my truck lights.
A large commercial locksmith van was parked in the driveway. The front door of the townhouse was wide open, and light spilled out onto the porch.
I stepped out of the truck, my heavy work boots crunching through the icy crust of the snow. Marcus scrambled out of the passenger side, pulling a leather folder and a portable camera from his coat.
"Mr. Beckett, let me handle the talking," Marcus warned under his breath. "We are here to serve a formal Notice of Lis Pendens and document the unlawful eviction."
"You talk, Marcus," I said, stepping past him. "I'm collecting my niece's belongings."
I walked up to the snowbank, dropped to one knee, and picked up the shattered picture frame. Inside was the photograph of my late sister, Mary, holding Sarah on her shoulders at a summer fair twenty years ago. The paper was damp, but the image was intact. I wiped the snow from the glass, my fingers trembling with cold rage, and placed it inside my heavy jacket.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing out there?!"
A sharp, shrill voice shouted from the front porch.
Lydia Vance-Mercer stood at the top of the steps, wrapped in an expensive mink coat, a gold cigarette holder held between her polished fingernails. Standing behind her in the doorway was Derek—wearing a designer sweater, holding a glass of bourbon, looking completely relaxed.
"This is private property!" Lydia barked, stepping down one stair. "Get off my lawn before I call the police!"
I didn't answer. I picked up two of the heavy trash bags containing Sarah's baby clothes and walked up the front walkway.
"I said stop!" Derek shouted, stepping out onto the porch, his eyes widening as he recognized me under the streetlamp light. "Thomas? What the hell are you doing here?"
"Taking back what you threw in the street, Derek," I said, stopping at the foot of the porch stairs, my eyes locking onto his.
Derek’s smug composure faltered for a fraction of a second, but he quickly covered it with an arrogant sneer. "You're wasting your time, old man. Sarah signed the property over to my mother's LLC this morning. She abandoned the residence. We have the quitclaim deed registered with the county."
"You forged a deed on a woman in labor, you pathetic piece of trash," Marcus shouted from behind me, holding up his camera and taking rapid-fire photos of Lydia, Derek, the locksmith van, and the trash bags on the curb. "I am Marcus Thorne, legal counsel representing Sarah Beckett-Mercer. You are currently engaging in an illegal lockout, grand larceny, and real estate fraud."
Lydia let out a harsh, cackling laugh, blowing a plume of white smoke into the freezing air. "Legal counsel? Please! That crazy little girl gave up her rights when she walked out of that hospital without my son’s permission! She’s mentally unfit! My brother-in-law, Dr. Vance, signed the papers hours ago! The state is placing that baby in Derek’s custody by tomorrow morning!"
"Where is the baby's crib, Lydia?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm, stepping up the first porch stair.
Derek stepped in front of his mother, inflating his chest. "It’s inside my house, Thomas. Where it belongs. Sarah is never stepping foot in this town again. If you take one more step up these stairs, I’ll have the locksmith testify that you trespassed and assaulted us."
I looked at Derek—a man who had never done a day of real physical labor in his life, a parasite who fed on vulnerable women and hid behind legal loopholes.
"You have twenty-four hours, Derek," I said, my voice dropping so low it sounded like grinding stone. "Enjoy my sister's house tonight. Look around at the walls, the floors, the furniture. Because by this time tomorrow, Vance Garrison is going to strip everything you own down to the bedrock."
May you like
I turned, picked up the remaining trash bags, and loaded them into the bed of my truck.
As I pulled away from the curb, I looked in the rearview mirror. Derek and his mother were standing on the lit porch, watching my truck disappear into the dark, completely unaware that the trap they had set for Sarah had just sprung on themselves.
