Chapter 4 - The Changing of the Guard
The sound of the locksmith’s heavy iron drill grinding against the electronic lock of the main gate was the sweetest sound I had ever heard. It took less than three minutes for the heavy iron latch to pop open with a loud, metallic clack. The gates, which had stood as a barrier between my children and their home, swung slowly inward, creaking on their hinges as the rain continued to fall.
"Cynthia, get the children inside the truck and drive up to the garage," Rebecca said, her gaze never leaving Patrick’s face. "Mr. Vance and I will handle the front door. Arthur, I expect your clients to have their personal items packed and out of this house within one hour. Anything left behind after 1:00 AM will be treated as abandoned property and disposed of at my client's discretion."
"You can't do this!" Margaret screamed, her voice breaking into a ragged, desperate sob as she gripped her husband’s arm. "This is my son's house! I picked out the marble for the kitchen! I designed the gardens! You're a thief, Cynthia! A common, low-class thief!"
I didn't answer her. I walked back to my SUV, climbed into the driver’s seat, and wrapped my shaking hands around the steering wheel. I looked at the rearview mirror. My six children were staring at me, their faces pale but their eyes filled with a sudden, dawning sense of safety.
"Are we going home, Mom?" little Abigail whispered from the back row, clutching her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.
"Yes, baby," I said, my voice choking as I shifted the car into drive and pressed the gas pedal. "We’re going home."
I drove up the long, winding brick driveway, past the fountain that Andrew had built for the children to splash in during the hot summer months, and parked directly in front of the grand mahogany double doors. By the time I stepped out of the car, the locksmith had already bypassed the front deadbolt. The heavy doors stood wide open, revealing the grand, marble-floored foyer that had always felt more like a museum than a home.
Patrick, Margaret, and their attorney were standing in the center of the hall. Two large leather suitcases sat by their feet, packed hastily by the remaining staff who looked terrified of being caught in the crossfire.
Patrick looked at me as I walked through the door, carrying Sophie in my arms while the other five children filed in behind me, their wet shoes leaving a long trail of muddy footprints across the pristine white marble.
"You think you’ve won, don't you?" Patrick said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register as he stepped closer to me. "You think because Andrew left you a few legal loopholes, you’re safe? This neighborhood doesn't want you here, Cynthia. The board of directors at Callahan Enterprises doesn't want you here. By Monday morning, I will have frozen every corporate expense account Andrew used to fund your lifestyle. You won't even be able to pay the electric bill on this monstrosity of a house."
"The corporate accounts aren't yours to freeze, Patrick," I said, handing Sophie gently to Benjamin so I could look my father-in-law directly in the eye. "Andrew didn't just buy the house. He spent the last six months of his life quietly purchasing the secondary debt of Callahan Enterprises from the regional banks. You thought you were corporate geniuses, but you were overleveraged by nearly forty million dollars."
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I took a step closer to him, until he was the one who had to lean back to maintain eye contact.
"On Monday morning, Patrick, there won't be a corporate board meeting. There will be a restructuring hearing. And guess who owns the primary voting shares of the debt?"
