Chapter 1 - The Heading on the Paper
The silence that fell over the dining room was heavy, dense, and suffocating. Rain continued to hammer relentlessly against the stained-glass windows of Grandpa Thomas’s Craftsman house, but inside, the only sound was the raspy breath escaping my father’s throat.
My mother, Diane, reached out with trembling fingers. She picked up the topmost document from the manila folder I had slid across the oak table, right next to the cooling pan of lasagna.
Her eyes scanned the bold, dark print at the top of the crisp white page:
FORMAL NOTICE TO QUIT AND DEMAND FOR IMMEDIATE VACATION OF PREMISES
MUNICIPAL COURT OF KING COUNTY, WASHINGTON
PARCEL ID: 4882-001-920 (THE ELEANOR & THOMAS BENNETT TRUST ESTATE)
"Claire..." Mom’s voice cracked, dropping an octave into a thin, terrified whisper. "What... what is this?"
"That, Mom, is a sixty-day formal legal eviction notice," I said cleanly. My lower lip throbbed where Erin’s hand had split the skin, and the metallic taste of blood was still wet against my teeth. But my voice didn't shake. Not even a little bit. "Served personally by me, the sole title owner of this property, to all three illegal occupants."
Erin let out a sharp, hysterical laugh, stepping forward and grabbing the paper from Mom’s hand.
"An eviction notice?!" Erin shrieked, her face contorting into a mask of pure rage as she ripped the paper in half, then into four pieces, tossing them onto the floor. "Are you insane?! You can't evict us! We’re your family! Mom and Dad raised you! You can't just toss us onto the street like trash because your feelings got hurt over a little argument!"
I looked at the torn pieces of paper fluttering onto the hardwood floor—the same floor I had spent three thousand dollars refinishing after Erin spilled industrial hair dye across the entry hallway six months ago.
"Ripping up the paper doesn't cancel the filing, Erin," I replied, pulling my phone from my coat pocket and tapping the screen. "That was just a courtesy copy. The official copies were filed with the King County Sheriff’s Office at four o'clock this afternoon. A process server will be arriving at eight o'clock tomorrow morning to hand each of you your certified court summonses."
My father, Mark, stood up so fast his heavy dining chair scraped violently against the floorboards. His face was mottled red, his fists clenched at his sides.
"Claire Bennett!" Dad roared, pointing a shaking finger across the table at me. "You listen to me right now! I am your father! You do not serve legal papers on your parents in the house my father built! You take this garbage back to your lawyer tomorrow morning, or so help me—"
"Or so help you what, Dad?" I interrupted, stepping closer to the table, staring him dead in the eye. "What are you going to do? Let Erin slap me again? Call me ungrateful? Tell me I'm dramatic? You haven't paid a single dollar of rent in twenty-two months. You haven't paid a single property tax bill. You've lived off my blood, my sweat, and my savings while treating me like an unwelcome guest in my own home."
"We are your parents!" Mom wept, clutching her chest. "We brought you into this world! We gave you everything!"
"You gave my college fund to Erin for her failed clothing line," I corrected her, every word dropping like a stone into a deep well. "I worked thirty hours a week at a coffee shop while maintaining a 3.9 GPA so I could graduate without debt. When I bought my first car, you asked why I didn't give it to Erin so she could drive to job interviews. And when Grandma Eleanor died, she left this house to me because she knew—she knew—that if she left it to you, you would mortgage it to the hilt to fund Erin's delusions until you lost it to the bank."
Erin took a step toward me, her eyes wild, her chest heaving. "It's not a delusion! PulsePoint is going to be a multi-million-dollar platform! I am an entrepreneur! You're just a glorified code-monkey!"
I looked at my younger sister—the girl who had spent twenty-nine years being told by two weak parents that the world owed her everything she desired.
"If PulsePoint is a multi-million-dollar platform, Erin," I said, offering her a cold, empty smile, "then you shouldn't have any trouble paying first, last, and a security deposit on an apartment downtown by December first. Because on December second, the locks on this house are being rekeyed. And if any of you set foot on this porch after that date, you will be arrested for criminal trespass."
May you like
I picked up my leather handbag, zipped my coat, and turned toward the front door.
"Enjoy the lasagna," I said softly over my shoulder. "I paid for the ingredients."
