Chapter 3 - THE COLD REALITY OF MORNING
When I woke up at eight o'clock the next morning, sunshine was streaming through the heavy curtains, reflecting off the fresh blanket of snow covering the city. I ordered breakfast from room service: poached eggs, crisp bacon, fresh croissants, and a pot of dark roast coffee.
While I ate, I turned off 'Do Not Disturb' on my phone.
Forty-seven missed calls. Thirty-two text messages.
Most of the text messages were from Grant, progressing rapidly from furious demands to outright panicked threats, and finally to desperate pleas.
Grant (01:14 AM): You are going to ruin the plumbing! Call them back now! Grant (02:30 AM): The indoor temperature is 28 degrees! We are sitting in the car with the engine running! Grant (04:15 AM): The car ran out of gas, Evelyn! Answer your phone! Allison (06:00 AM): Mom please call us! The kitchen pipes made a loud popping noise! We had to go stay at a 24-hour diner!
I finished my coffee, wiped my mouth with a linen napkin, and picked up the phone to call my personal attorney, Marcus Vance—who also happened to be Henry’s younger nephew.
“Aunt Evelyn?” Marcus answered on the second ring, his voice sharp and alert. “I saw your email sent early this morning with the deed attachments. What on earth is happening at the house?”
“Good morning, Marcus,” I said smoothly. “Grant Mercer took my heater last night while I was shivering in my room, told me I didn't own the home, and threatened to push me into an assisted living facility by spring.”
Marcus let out a low, grim whistle. “That arrogant fool. He really thought he could force you out?”
“He believed that because I stayed quiet, I was weak,” I replied. “He convinced Allison that they owned fifty percent of the property because they paid the electric bill for two years.”
“They don't own a single square inch,” Marcus said firmly. “When Uncle Henry drafted the land trust thirty years ago, he ensured full life tenancy and absolute title belonged exclusively to you. Even if Allison is his daughter, her name isn't on the deed, nor is Grant’s. They are legally nothing more than guests whose license to occupy can be revoked at will.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I want them out, Marcus. But I want it done by the book, clean and indisputable. I am staying at the Grand Crest Hotel for the week.”
“Consider it handled,” Marcus said. “I’m filing an emergency petition for an ex-parte order of possession based on elder financial abuse and harassment today. But Aunt Evelyn... what about the pipes? If the power was off all night in six-degree weather—”
“Oh, the main water supply valve was shut off in the basement before I left,” I smiled faintly. “I’m old, Marcus, not reckless. The house pipes were completely drained. What popped last night was just the secondary irrigation line Grant illegally installed for his outdoor hot tub without a permit.”
Marcus broke out into a loud laugh. “You are Henry’s wife, alright. What’s your next move?”
“I’m going to enjoy a spa treatment at eleven,” I said calmly. “And then I’m going to let Grant Mercer stew in his own cold broth.”
Around noon, after a full body massage and a peppermint facial, I descended to the hotel lounge for lunch. As I sat near the window sipping sparkling water, the double glass doors of the hotel main entrance burst open.
Grant and Allison stumbled into the grand lobby.
They looked completely pathetic. Grant was wearing three jackets layered over each other, his hair wildly unkempt, his nose bright red, and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Allison was wrapped in an old throw blanket, shivering violently, her mascara smudged under her eyes.
They looked frantically around the gleaming, white-marble lobby until Grant’s eyes locked onto me sitting comfortably in my leather armchair.
May you like
His face turned a dangerous shade of crimson. He shoved past the hotel host and marched straight toward my table, his heavy boots trailing melted snow across the pristine carpet.
“Evelyn!” he roared, his voice cracking with rage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
