Chapter 3 - The Quiet Wednesday
Wednesday morning was quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like the space between the lightning flash and the thunder crack. Leo and Brielle left for work at 7:45. Brielle worked as a junior marketing coordinator for a medical supply company in Newark, a job that required her to wear sharp grey suits and talk about "deliverables" in a loud, performative voice on her Bluetooth headset while she walked down my hallway. Leo had managed to land a temp position at a local distribution center three weeks prior, sorting inventory for twelve dollars an hour—a steep drop from his Columbus salary, but it sufficed to keep Brielle in her artisanal cheeses and organic wine.
"We're going to that new microbrewery after work with the Millers," Brielle said as she stood by the front door, adjusting her scarf in the mirror Maren’s father had carved from black walnut. "Don't wait up for us, Silas. And please, if you do the dishes, don't leave the iron skillet in the sink. It rusts."
"I won't leave it in the sink," I said, sitting at the kitchen table with my black coffee. I was drinking from a plain, white ceramic mug I bought at the grocery store for ninety-nine cents. It had no roses. It had no history. It was nothing but a tool for holding hot liquid.
Leo didn't look at me as he pulled on his boots. He hadn't looked me in the eye since the disposal incident. "See ya, Dad," he muttered, following his wife out the door into the wet fog.
The second their sedan cleared the edge of the driveway, I stood up.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Deputy Miller, a man I used to fish with back before his knees went bad and he took an administrative role at the county sheriff's department.
The notices were served at their respective workplaces ten minutes ago, Silas. Personal service confirmed. The clock is ticking. They have until 5:00 p.m. today to vacate the premises.
"Thank you, Tom," I murmured to the empty kitchen.
I didn't waste time. I went down the hall to the spare bedroom—the one that used to be Leo’s childhood room, now filled with Brielle’s white lacquer dressers, her garment bags, her expensive skincare products that lined the vanity like little glass soldiers. I didn't touch their clothes. I didn't touch their personal electronics. I am an investigator; I know the law. If I damaged their property, they would have a cause of action against the trust.
Instead, I pulled twelve heavy-duty plastic storage bins out of the basement—the bins Maren used to store Christmas decorations in. I neatly, systematically packed every single item that belonged to my son and his wife. I folded her designer dresses with the precision of a retail clerk. I wrapped his video game consoles in bubble wrap. I packed her organic spices, her specialized espresso cups, her cream-colored bathroom rug that she had insisted on buying because my blue ones were "too depressing."
By 1:00 p.m., the spare bedroom was completely hollowed out, reduced back to the bare mattress and the faded blue wallpaper Leo had chosen when he was twelve years old. The twelve bins stood in a neat, symmetrical grid in the center of the garage, right next to the riding lawnmower.
By 2:00 p.m., the locksmith I hired arrived at the house. He was a young guy with tattoos down his arms and a quiet respect for the badge I used to carry. Within ninety minutes, he had replaced every single exterior lock on the house. The front door, the back kitchen door, the side bulkhead that led to the basement—all of them were now secured by high-grade, pick-resistant deadbolts that could only be opened by a master key that resided in my pocket or an encrypted signal from my specific cellular device.
By 3:30 p.m., I had installed the four wireless security cameras under the eaves of the roof. The live feed came through on my phone screen in crisp, high-definition color. One covered the driveway, one covered the front porch, one covered the back deck, and the fourth sat right above the garage door, looking down at the gravel lane.
The house felt different now. It didn't feel lonely anymore. It felt fortified. It felt like an insurance file that had been investigated, verified, and closed with a definitive stamp.
I went back inside, made a fresh pot of coffee, and sat down in Maren's old rocking chair by the living room window. The white grocery store mug was warm against my palms. I didn't turn on the television. I didn't turn on the radio. I just watched the blue light drain out of the sky and the cold, dark Ohio evening settle over the grass.
At 4:45 p.m., the first alert popped up on my phone.
Motion detected at the front perimeter.
May you like
I lifted the screen. A dark sedan had just pulled into the driveway, its headlights cutting through the wet dusk. The brake lights glowed red, then went dark. The doors opened, and my son and my daughter-in-law stepped out onto the gravel. They didn't look like people who had just come from a microbrewery. They looked like people who had been handed a legal eviction notice while standing in front of their coworkers at 8:00 in the morning.
Brielle reached the front porch first, her heels clicking like frantic teeth against the wood.
