Chapter 4 - The Screaming at the Gates
The front door didn't even jiggle.
Through the high-definition lens of the porch camera, I watched Brielle jam her brass key into the new Schlage lock. The key didn't go in past the first notch. She pulled it out, stared at it in the dim porch light, and jammed it in again, harder this time, her shoulder slamming against the solid oak frame Maren and I had installed after the blizzard of '78.
"Leo!" she shrieked, her voice carrying through the thick wood of the door, amplified by the digital speaker on my phone. "Leo, the key isn't working! He changed the locks! The old bastard actually changed the locks!"
Leo came up the steps three at a time, his work jacket unzipped, his face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated panic. He grabbed the handle himself, shaking it with both hands until the metal rattled within the brass strike plate. "Dad!" he yelled, his face pressed against the small diamond-shaped window near the top of the door. "Dad! Open the door! What the hell is this? We got some paper at work from a sheriff's deputy! What are you doing?"
I didn't move from the rocking chair. I tilted my white mug, took a slow sip of the black coffee, and watched the digital ballet unfold on my screen.
Brielle wasn't just angry; she was unraveling. The calculated, therapeutic mask she had worn in her cream bathrobe was completely gone, replaced by a raw, frantic rage that showed the true shape of her teeth. She began pounding on the door with her fists, her designer rings scratching against the fresh varnish.
"Silas! Open this door right now!" she screamed, her face turning a dark, blotchy purple on the high-definition display. "You can't do this! This is illegal! We live here! We have rights! We have our clothes in there! My five-hundred-dollar winter coat is in that hallway!"
"Dad!" Leo joined in, using the heel of his boot to kick the bottom panel of the door. The heavy oak absorbed the impact with a dull, solid thud that barely register in the room. "Open the door! You're losing your mind! Is this about Mom’s stupid mug? It was a ten-dollar piece of junk from a tourist trap! Are you seriously throwing your own son out over a piece of garbage?"
A piece of garbage.
I looked down at the velvet pouch sitting on the side table next to Maren’s old reading glasses. The word didn't hurt anymore. It didn't pierce the skin because the skin had already gone dead. It just confirmed the accuracy of the claim. It proved that my investigation had been correct from the very first day. He wasn't soft; he was hollow. And she was just the wind blowing through him.
"Silas Mercer!" Brielle was hysterical now, dropping her purse onto the wet porch floor and throwing her entire body weight against the door. "You open this door or I'm calling the police! I will have you arrested for an illegal lockout! Every single thing we own is in that house! You are a crazy, lonely old man who belongs in a home!"
I reached down, tapped the microphone icon on my phone screen, and spoke into the small digital square. My voice was low, slow, and completely devoid of inflection—the same voice I used when I told a claimant that their fire damage had been ruled arson based on the accelerant patterns in the floorboards.
"The police won't help you, Brielle," I said, the electronic speaker under the porch eave broadcasting my words with a crisp, mechanical clarity. "The notice you were served at 8:00 this morning was an absolute termination of occupancy under the Mercer Family Revocable Living Trust. Legally, you are no longer occupants. You are trespassers. If you call the sheriff's department, they won't arrest me. They will arrest you."
The pounding stopped for a split second. Leo froze, his boot still raised toward the door, his mouth open as he listened to my voice coming out of the house itself.
"Dad," Leo choked out, his voice dropping from anger into a desperate, high-pitched whine. "Dad, please. It’s freezing out here. It’s raining. Where are we supposed to go? We don't have enough money for a hotel room until Friday. Just let us in for the night. We'll talk about it. We'll buy you a new mug. We'll buy ten of them."
"Your personal belongings have been packed with the utmost care, Leo," I said into the phone. "They are held in twelve water-tight containers located in the garage. The garage door is secured with a heavy-duty combination lock. The combination is 1-9-9-1. The year your mother and I built the life you thought you could throw down the drain. Take your bins, get in your car, and leave my property."
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"Silas, you son of a bitch!" Brielle screamed, lunging toward the security camera under the eave, her fingers clawing at the plastic housing. She couldn't reach it. It sat eight feet off the ground, tucked securely behind the aluminum gutter. "I will sue you for every dime you have! I will ruin you!"
"You can try, Brielle," I said, turning off the microphone icon. "But I've spent thirty years reading the fine print. And you haven't even opened the book."
