Chapter 4 - The Rainstorm Eviction
Two days later, the sky over Baton Rouge turned the color of bruised slate. A heavy, driving rain began to fall around two in the afternoon, turning the streets into shallow rivers and washing dead oak leaves across the asphalt.
I was sitting at my kitchen island reviewing bank statements when the motion alert pinged on my phone.
A large white U-Haul box truck came splashing up my street, its windshield wipers thrashing frantically against the downpour. It pulled right past the driveway, backed clumsily into the apron, and cut its engine.
The passenger door swung open first. Harper climbed down, shielding her head with a neon pink umbrella that did little to stop the blowing spray from soaking her jeans. Chase jumped out from the driver’s side, wearing a heavy rain jacket, looking determined and grim.
The truck was packed to the gills. Through the rear translucent roll-up door, I could see the silhouette of a wooden crib, mattress sets, dressers, plastic storage bins stacked four high, and dozens of cardboard boxes.
They hadn't listened to a single word I said. They assumed my warning was just sibling posturing—a temporary flash of anger that would melt away once they showed up on my doorstep with a truck full of baby furniture in the pouring rain.
Chase walked briskly up the front steps, carrying a heavy duffel bag over one shoulder. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his keyring, and slid the old brass key into the front door deadbolt.
He turned it.
Nothing happened. The cylinder didn't even catch.
Chase frowned, pulled the key out, checked the orientation, and jammed it back in. He jiggled the handle, twisting it hard to the left and right.
The deadbolt held firm.
Harper hurried up the steps beside him, water dripping from the brim of her umbrella. “What are you doing? Open the door, it’s freezing out here!”
“It’s not turning,” Chase muttered, wiping rain from his glasses with his wet sleeve. “She must have... she must have changed the lock.”
Harper’s face went pale with shock. She grabbed the brass key out of Chase’s hand, shoved it into the keyhole herself, and threw her weight against the knob.
The door didn't budge an inch.
Frustration boiled over into absolute rage. Harper dropped her umbrella onto the welcome mat, balled up her fists, and began hammering violently against my wooden front door with both hands.
“Naomi! Open this door right now!” she screamed over the roar of the rain. “You are seriously making a pregnant woman stand outside in this weather! Open this damn door!”
I didn't open the door. I picked up my phone, tapped the intercom icon on my security app, and spoke directly into the built-in speaker mounted beside the porch light. The microphone amplified my voice cleanly across the porch, cutting through the thunder.
“You have five minutes to remove that truck from my property,” I said, my voice cold and flat. “If it’s not out of my driveway by then, I’m calling a commercial towing service, and it will be impounded at your expense.”
Harper froze mid-pound. She stared directly up into the dark lens of the security camera mounted above the porch light, her mouth hanging open in sheer disbelief.
“You can’t do this!” she shrieked, tears mixing with the rain streaming down her cheeks. “We have all our things in this truck! We have nowhere to go! Call the police if you want, but you are my sister!”
“Four minutes, Harper,” I said.
Chase grabbed her arm, shouting something in her ear, trying to pull her back toward the truck as neighbors across the street began peering out their blinds to watch the spectacle.
For three agonizing minutes, they stood in the pouring rain, arguing wildly beside the idling U-Haul. Finally, Chase slammed his fist against the truck’s side panel in frustration, hauled himself back into the cab, and fired up the engine.
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The tires spun in the wet gravel, spitting mud across my lawn before the truck lurched forward and disappeared down the street into the gray curtain of rain.
I watched them leave on my phone screen, locked my phone, and went back to my coffee.
