Chapter 7 - The Final Lockout
When I returned to Willowbrook Lane at 8:00 AM to retrieve my interview suit, my key wouldn't turn in the lock.
Garrick had actually done it. He had changed the deadbolt.
Through the front window, I could see Brennan standing in the living room, his arms crossed. Dad walked out onto the porch, wearing a bathrobe, looking hollowed-out and sleepless.
“You don't live here anymore,” Dad said, staying behind the glass storm door. “You made your choice last night. You humiliated your mother in front of our friends. You broke Talia’s heart.”
“Open the door, Dad. I need my clothes and my birth certificate for my fellowship interview.”
“Your interview is at three, isn't it?” Dad laughed—a broken, bitter sound. “You aren't going. You want to act like an independent adult with your grandfather’s money? Go ahead. See how far you get without your credentials, your clothes, or a signature on that university waiver.”
Brennan stepped out behind him, his expression torn between anger and unease. “Marlowe, just apologize. Tell Dad you’ll release half the trust for Talia’s school. He’ll sign the release form. We can fix this before graduation.”
I looked at my brother—the Dartmouth scholar who had been fed on my grandfather’s subsidies while convincing himself he had earned every bit of his privilege.
“Brennan,” I said quietly, “did you know Dad was drunk when James Wescott died?”
Brennan blinked, stunned. “What?”
“Ask him,” I pointed at Garrick. “Ask him why Grandfather had to hire three private investigators to seal the Weston County police files in 2012. Ask him why our family doesn't own this house—why it belongs to a trust managed by Uncle Arthur.”
Dad lunged forward, banging his fist against the storm door. “Shut your mouth! Shut up!”
“Call the police, Dad,” I said, stepping back off the porch. “Go ahead. Tell them your daughter is trying to enter a house that belongs to her legal trust. Let’s have the patrol car pull up right now. Let’s see which of us ends up in handcuffs.”
Garrick froze. His chest heaved beneath his bathrobe, his eyes wild and desperate.
Just then, a sleek black town car pulled into our driveway. Arthur Vance stepped out of the back seat, holding a leather briefcase and an official court summons wrapped in legal ribbon.
“Good morning, Garrick,” Arthur called out, his voice echoing across the quiet neighborhood. “I hope you haven't disposed of Marlowe’s personal effects. Tampering with property protected under an active probate injunction carries a mandatory sixty-day contempt penalty.”
Arthur walked up the porch steps, bypassed Garrick as though he were made of smoke, and handed a document to my father.
“What is this?” Dad gasped.
“Notice of Emergency Emancipation Hearing, scheduled for 11:30 AM,” Arthur said calmly. “And a temporary restraining order barring you from disposing of, altering, or accessing Marlowe’s academic documents.”
He turned to Brennan. “Young man, you might want to call your university’s bursar office. As of nine o’clock this morning, the secondary credit line on the Willowbrook residence has been frozen pending forensic audit. Your Dartmouth fraternity fees are officially past due.”
Brennan turned white. He looked at Dad. “Dad? What is he talking about? You said the tuition was taken care of!”
May you like
Dad didn't answer. He couldn't. His house of cards was falling around his ankles.
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