Chapter 6 - The Unraveling
By evening, the apartment was half-empty. Brenda was sitting in a holding cell at the Hennepin County precinct, waiting for an arraignment bond hearing that her lawyer friends were frantically trying to negotiate. Beatrice and Raymond were huddled in their bedroom, refusing to open the door, their absolute reign of terror reduced to the pathetic sound of muffled arguments through the wood paneling.
Mitchell sat alone at the dining room table, the harsh overhead light casting long, unforgiving shadows across his face. His phone buzzed continuously in his pocket—work emails, corporate inquiries about his sudden absence from the Milwaukee branch, missed calls from mutual friends asking what was happening. He ignored them all.
The front door unlocked, and Marcus Vance stepped back into the apartment, accompanied by a private locksmith.
“What are you still doing here?” Mitchell asked, his voice dead and defeated.
Marcus didn't look at him with malice; he looked at him with clinical indifference.
“I’m here to supervise the retrieval of Valerie’s personal belongings, clothing, and legal documents that were left behind in the master bedroom closet,” Marcus said, gesturing to the locksmith, who immediately set down his toolbox near the bedroom door. “Valerie has filed for divorce on the grounds of extreme cruelty, domestic violence, and breach of marital trust. Furthermore, she is seeking full legal and physical custody of Daisy, with zero visitation rights for your parents.”
Mitchell stood up slowly, his legs trembling slightly. “She can’t do that. I didn't hit her. My father did. I wasn't even in the city!”
“You enabled them, Mr. Vance,” Marcus replied coldly, pulling a document from his leather portfolio and sliding it across the table. “When your wife texted you that your father had struck her and your mother had brutalized your child, your immediate response was to tell her to come back, apologize, and stop making a fuss. Legally and morally, that makes you an accessory to their abuse. Valerie is done. Do not call her. Do not text her. Any communication from this point forward goes exclusively through my office.”
Mitchell looked down at the divorce papers. The stark black-and-white text seemed to mock him. He realized, with a sickening lurch in his stomach, that his cowardice, his lifelong habit of appeasing his domineering mother and enabling his toxic family, had just cost him everything that truly mattered.
“I want to see my daughter,” Mitchell whispered, his voice cracking.
“You can ask the judge for supervised visits in six months,” Marcus said flatly. “Provided you complete an anger management course, psychological counseling, and prove you are no longer under the thumb of your parents. Until then, you are a ghost in their lives.”
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The locksmith finished picking the bedroom lock with a crisp click, pushing the door open to retrieve Valerie’s remaining suitcases.
Mitchell sank back down into his chair, burying his face in his hands as the reality of his isolation finally settled around him like a shroud.
