Chapter 4 - The Audit That Exposed Them All
By 1:00 P.M., the locks on the Providence Road estate were being systematically removed and replaced by a team of commercial locksmiths.
A moving crew supervised by private security was already loading Wade’s personal suits, shoes, and golf clubs into generic cardboard boxes on the front driveway.
Inside the mansion, Lorraine was screaming.
She stood in the center of the grand foyer in her silk dressing gown, clutching a decorative porcelain vase as if it were a weapon, shrieking at the two uniform deputies standing by the entrance.
“This is my son’s estate!” she wailed, her voice echoing up the marble staircase. “You have no right to touch my belongings! I am Wade Thorne’s mother! I demand to speak to the chief of police!”
The heavy front door opened.
I walked in, accompanied by Uncle Arthur and our head estate manager.
When Lorraine saw me, her face contorted with fury. She stormed across the marble floor, pointing a trembling, manicured finger in my face.
“You spiteful, ungrateful little wretch!” she shrieked. “How dare you bring police officers into this house! Where is Wade? What have you done to my son?”
“Wade is currently at a budget motel near the airport,” I replied evenly. “His corporate cards have been cancelled, his vehicle has been repossessed, and his company phone has been wiped.”
Lorraine froze, her eyes darting between me and Uncle Arthur.
“You’re lying,” she gasped. “Wade is the head of this household. He earns millions!”
“Wade earned an executive salary of three hundred thousand dollars, which has now been terminated for cause,” Uncle Arthur said coldly. “Every luxury you enjoyed in this home—your private housekeeping staff, your country club membership, your five-thousand-dollar monthly beauty allowance—was subsidized by the Vance family trust. A trust that has officially closed its ledger to you.”
“I am his mother!” Lorraine cried, turning toward the deputies. “I live here! You cannot evict a resident without thirty days' notice!”
Victoria Hayes stepped through the door, holding a stamped legal certificate.
“Mrs. Thorne, you are registered in county records as a temporary houseguest under a revocable license granted by Vance Real Estate LLC. The property owner revoked that license at 9:00 A.M. following documented incidents of domestic endangerment against a postpartum mother and newborn child.”
Victoria signaled to two female security officers.
“Please escort Mrs. Thorne to the guest suite to collect her personal clothing and luggage. Any household decor, artwork, jewelry, or assets belonging to the estate will remain on the property under inventory lock.”
“You can’t do this to me!” Lorraine sobbed, her arrogance finally collapsing into ugly, pathetic desperation. “I have nowhere to go! All my friends are in this neighborhood!”
“Then I suggest you call one of them for a ride,” I said quietly. “Because your town car service has already been cancelled.”
Two hours later, the estate was silent.
Lorraine had been escorted to a taxi, clutching two suitcases full of clothes, still weeping hysterically into her phone.
Wade’s leased Maybach had been towed back to the corporate fleet depot.
Brynn Hollowell was currently being served with a formal civil complaint for fraudulent conveyance and unjust enrichment at her Uptown apartment, with an eviction notice from the building management following right behind it.
I walked up the grand staircase, one careful step at a time.
I entered the master bedroom.
The room had already been stripped. The bedsheets, the pillows, and the floral perfume had been cleared out. The entire suite was being deep-cleaned and sanitized.
On the dresser sat the blush-pink silk robe.
Brynn had left it behind when she fled the estate the previous evening.
May you like
I picked up the robe, carried it down to the service terrace, and dropped it directly into the outdoor incinerator bin.
As the silk caught fire and turned to ash against the gray afternoon sky, I felt the final lingering knot of tension dissolve from my chest.
