Chapter 8 - The Media Circus
In a small town like ours, a courtroom drama involving a prominent local family spreads faster than a wildfire. By Monday, a local investigative blogger had picked up the story of the Brooks estate battle. The headline read: “Local Builders Forged Deceased Father's Name to Institutionalize Widow Mother.”
Mark’s business Facebook page was flooded with hundreds of angry comments from local clients demanding their deposits back. His suppliers officially canceled his credit terms. By Tuesday afternoon, his truck was seen being repossessed from his driveway.
Allison wasn't doing any better. The boutique she owned in the historic district—the one funded by my emergency loans over the years—was dark. A sign on the door read “Closed Until Further Notice.” Her high-society friends, the ones she used to brag about while ignoring my phone calls, had completely erased her from their social calendars.
They came to my house together that evening, parking down the street to avoid the local news van that had been hovering around the block.
They didn't knock. They stood on the porch, looking through the glass door like ghosts trying to get back into a house they used to own.
I walked to the door, locked the deadbolt right in front of their faces, and drew the heavy linen curtains shut.
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For decades, my door had been open to them. Every time they failed, every time they broke something, they came back to this porch, and I fixed it. They forgot that the only reason they had a safety net was because I was holding the strings.
Now, the net was gone. The concrete below was very, very hard.
