Chapter 12 - The Wolves in Fine Wool
The paper in Arthur Pendelton’s hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the frigid wind sweeping down from the ridge. The blue tape binding the legal petition rustled like dry leaves. Behind him, the dark sedan sat idling, its exhaust billowing into the twilight like gray smoke from an artillery battery.
"Custody?" The word tasted like copper in my mouth. I stepped down off the bottom porch step, the frozen gravel crunching beneath my boots. Every nerve ending in my body went taut. "You drive up my mountain, park on my gravel, and talk about my daughter?"
"David, wait," Kevin said, his voice hoarse. My brother scrambled out from the porch shadows, his face bloodless. He had spent the last two hours slumped on my steps, weeping over the ruins of his marriage and the crimes Courtney had committed under his nose. But now, seeing the man in the charcoal coat, Kevin’s shoulders stiffened. "Who are you? What Delaware trust? Courtney didn’t know anyone in Delaware."
Pendelton didn’t even glance at Kevin. His eyes remained fixed on me, clinical and unblinking, like an appraiser looking at a condemned barn.
"Your brother’s ignorance is well-documented, Mr. Vance," Pendelton said calmly. "It was, in fact, an asset. But Courtney’s signature appears on thirty-four separate deeds, easements, and promissory notes executed over the last twenty-four months. You believed she was skimming money for luxury handbags and suburban status symbols. That was the bait. What she actually did was leverage the Vance ancestral estate as collateral for an eight-million-dollar development mezzanine loan through Blackwood Crest LLC."
He thrust the petition forward again. When I didn't reach for it, he simply let go. The heavy parchment fluttered, and I caught it out of instinct before it hit the dirty snow.
The red stamp on the front was unmistakable: *State Supreme Court, Appellate Division, Third Judicial Department. Emergency Ex Parte Injunction.*
"Under paragraph four," Pendelton continued, his tone conversational and devoid of human warmth, "Blackwood Crest asserts equitable title over the sixty-acre timber tract, effective immediately. Under paragraph seven, the petitioner cites the open criminal proceedings, the documented arson of personal property on this premises, and the presence of firearms in an emotionally volatile domestic environment to request the immediate temporary transfer of Maisie Clara Vance to state-supervised foster care pending a fitness evaluation."
"Arson?" I growled, taking another step. I was close enough now to smell his cologne—something expensive, sterile, like cedarwood and antiseptic. "She destroyed Maisie’s cake, mocked an eight-year-old child to her face, and defrauded my entire family. I burned a purse that was bought with stolen money."
"And you did it on camera," Pendelton replied smoothly. "A video your sister-in-law wisely uploaded to a private cloud server twenty minutes before your local sheriff handcuffed her. To a family court judge who knows nothing about birthday cakes or broken vanity, you are an unemployed widower with an unstable temper, a volatile living situation, and eighty thousand dollars in documented back taxes which Blackwood Crest purchased from the county treasurer yesterday afternoon."
The ground seemed to tilt beneath me. Eighty thousand dollars. That was the lien my late father had disputed with the county five years ago before his stroke—a dispute we thought was tied up in bureaucratic arbitration.
"You can't buy county tax liens without public auction," Kevin yelled, his voice cracking with desperation. "That's illegal!"
"In this county, Mr. Vance, everything is public if you know which filing cabinet to open and which clerk to retain on retainer," Pendelton said. He checked an immaculate silver wristwatch, then looked up, his thin lips curving into that razor-sharp smirk. "It is currently five-fifteen. You have until nine o'clock tomorrow morning to vacate this dwelling and deliver the minor child to the Department of Children and Family Services in Plattsburgh. If you attempt to flee with the child, an Amber Alert will be issued across three states. Good evening, gentlemen."
May you like
He turned on his heel, his wool coat flaring, and reached for the sedan's door handle.
Before my brain could stop my hands, I lunged forward, grabbed the thick wool at his collar, and slammed him back against the sedan's tinted window with enough force to rock the chassis.
