Chapter 4 - The Scrambling Rats
The next morning, the grand estate on Elm Street looked less like a home and more like a refugee camp for white-collar criminals.
Suitcases, designer garment bags, golf clubs, and expensive wine crates were piled haphazardly across the manicured front lawn like discarded trash. Marcus and Chloe were shouting at each other near the trunk of their rental car, desperately trying to cram oversized boxes into a hatchback that was far too small.
Evelyn sat rigidly on the stone porch bench, refusing to move, clutching her designer handbag as if it were a shield against the humiliation of the neighborhood watching her downfall.
From the second-floor window, I watched them scramble.
Skylar stood beside me, holding a cup of hot cocoa, looking down at the chaos below with wide, solemn eyes.
“Are they really leaving forever, Mom?” she asked quietly, her small hand wrapping around my fingers.
“Yes, sweetie,” I answered, resting my other hand gently on her shoulder. “They’re going back where they came from. And they’re never coming back here again.”
Skylar let out a long, shuddering breath of relief—a sound so heavy for an eleven-year-old child that it renewed every ounce of fierce protective fire burning in my chest.
Downstairs, the front door chimed.
I walked down to find Thomas Wright, the senior principal architect from Wright & Associates, standing in the foyer with a fresh set of revised blueprints.
“Good morning, Ms. Mercer,” Thomas greeted me with a warm, respectful nod. “I see your moving process is proceeding efficiently.”
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“More efficiently than they anticipated,” I smiled, inviting him inside. “Let’s look at those kitchen redesign plans. The ones that actually belong to us.”
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