Chapter 3 - The Eviction of Braddock Hall
By midnight, the white silk tent on the front lawn was completely empty.
The wealthy guests had hurried to their luxury sedans and fled down the gravel drive, whispering in shock and disgust as news of the hog shed spread across Willow Bend. The florists, the caterers, and the event coordinators had packed their vans and left, refusing to be associated with Braddock Hall.
In the grand foyer of the farmhouse, three uniformed sheriff's deputies stood guard near the oak staircase.
Regina was standing in the center of the living room, weeping hysterically, throwing her designer coats and silk dresses into four large cardboard boxes. Her expensive makeup was smeared across her pale face, her emerald gown wrinkled and dirty at the hem.
Her thirty-two-year-old boyfriend, a local real estate scammer named Chad who had lived off my monthly stipend funds for six months, stood near the front porch trying to load a seventy-inch television into his sports car.
"Leave the electronics, sir," Deputy Vance warned, unstrapping his taser from his belt. "Every piece of furniture and equipment purchased using the military allowance account is currently seized under court-ordered asset forfeiture."
Chad dropped the television onto the grass, got into his car, and sped down the driveway without looking back at Regina once.
Regina watched his taillights disappear down the dark road, her chest heaving with sharp, desperate sobs.
"He... he left me," Regina whimpered, dropping onto her knees on the hardwood floor. She looked up at me as I walked down the grand staircase carrying a small wooden box I had found hidden behind a panel in the master bedroom closet.
Inside the box were twelve unopened envelopes—twelve monthly checks of fifteen hundred dollars each that I had sent from South Korea, alongside bank statements showing Regina had opened a fraudulent line of credit in my daughter's name using her stolen Social Security number.
"You didn't just neglect her, Reggie," I said, holding the ledger in my hands. "You stole her identity to pay for your catering bills."
"Quinn... please," Regina wept, crawling toward my boots on her hands and knees. "I was in debt! The venue was losing money! I was going to pay it back once the summer wedding season started! I'm your sister! Your own blood!"
I stepped back, out of her reach.
"Blood doesn't starve an eight-year-old child, Reggie," I said softly. "Blood doesn't put a little girl on feed sacks."
Sheriff Miller stepped forward, taking Regina by her elbows and lifting her to her feet.
"Regina Braddock," Sheriff Miller read from his tablet. "You are under arrest for Felony Child Abuse, Grand Larceny, Identity Theft, and Fraudulent Conversion of Military Stipend Funds."
The steel handcuffs clicked tightly around her wrists.
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Regina shrieked and thrashed as the deputies led her out through the front oak doors—the same doors she had stood on four hours earlier while holding a glass of white wine and telling me I had no right to speak up in her house.
I walked onto the front porch and watched the police cruiser pull away into the dark Missouri night, its red taillights fading into the distance until there was nothing left but silence.
