Chapter 3 - The locks are changed
At 1:00 PM that same afternoon, a white locksmith van pulled up to the curb of the house I had bought four years ago.
Dad was already waiting on the front lawn, standing beside a tall, muscular man in a suit—a private security officer Denise had hired to ensure our safety. I pulled into the driveway right behind them. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stepped out onto the concrete.
The front door of the house flew open before we even reached the porch steps. Derek stomped out, his eyes wild, holding a stack of legal papers in his right hand.
"What the hell is this?!" he bellowed, waving the papers at my father. "My credit cards are frozen! My mother’s business account has a freeze on it! I went to buy gas this morning and the card was declined! What did you do to my accounts?!"
Dad didn't even flinch. He walked up the porch steps with steady, unhurried steps.
"They were never your accounts, Derek," Dad said coldly. "They were Claire's money, stolen through fraud. And today, the state of Ohio took them back."
"I live here!" Derek shrieked, turning to me. "Claire, you can't do this! We are married! Everything you have belongs to us jointly!"
"Actually, Derek," I said, stepping up beside my father, "the court disagrees."
I handed him a bright yellow legal document—an Emergency Ex Parte Order of Protection and Exclusive Occupancy, granted by a judge only two hours prior.
"Because you deprived your minor child of basic necessities, used stolen credentials to commit identity theft, and engaged in financial abuse, the judge has granted me exclusive rights to this residence," I told him, keeping my voice steady and completely devoid of emotion. "You have thirty minutes to collect your personal clothing and exit the premises. If you are on this property at 1:35 PM, the officer standing behind my father will arrest you for criminal trespass."
Derek stared at the paper in absolute disbelief. The smug, arrogant man who had stood in my kitchen on Saturday night, proudly boasting about handing my hard-earned salary to his mother while his child ate dry cereal, was completely gone. In his place was a desperate, panicked leech who had suddenly realized the host had cut off the blood supply.
"You can't do this to me!" he spat, his voice cracking. "I have no money! Where am I supposed to go?!"
"Ask your mother," Dad remarked dryly. "I hear she likes casino hotels in Indiana."
Derek glared at us with pure, unadulterated venom. He stomped back into the house, slamming doors and cursing loudly as he threw his clothes into trash bags. The locksmith immediately went to work, unscrewing the deadbolts on the front door, back door, and garage entrance, replacing them with commercial-grade smart locks programmed only to my phone.
When Derek finally emerged twenty minutes later, dragging two black garbage bags full of clothes, he stood on the driveway and glared at me one last time.
"You think you won?" he hissed through gritted teeth. "My mom has lawyers too, Claire. We are going to bleed you dry in the divorce court. You won't see a dime of that forty-five thousand dollars back."
"We'll see about that in court, Derek," I replied simply. "Now get off my driveway."
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He threw his bags into the trunk of his rusting sedan and sped off, his tires screeching against the asphalt. As the sound of his engine faded into the distance, the locksmith clicked the new deadbolt into place with a sharp, definitive snap.
I leaned against the porch railing and closed my eyes. For the first time in nearly a year, I breathed in air that didn't feel heavy with fear.
