Chapter 4 - Saturday's Arrival
Saturday morning broke cold and grey over Maple Ridge Lane, with autumn leaves scattering across the damp asphalt.
By seven-thirty, a bright orange rental box truck was parked in front of my former house, hazard lights flashing.
Derek stood by the open cargo bay, wearing leather gloves, barking orders at two college buddies he had bribed with pizza and beer to help him move.
"Be careful with that sofa, man!" Derek yelled, pointing to a cream leather sectional in the back of the truck.
"That thing cost four grand! Put it straight into the living room once we get these doors open!"
My father stood on the front lawn, holding a heavy yellow crowbar he had retrieved from his car trunk.
"I'm giving her until eight o'clock," my father grumbled, checking his watch with a deep, furious scowl.
"If she doesn't show up with the keys, I'm popping the side window latch. It's family property anyway."
My mother sat on the front porch steps, shivering in her down parka, holding a thermos of coffee like a defensive shield.
"I've called her forty times since yesterday afternoon," she complained, her lips tight with bitter resentment.
"Her phone is completely off. She probably checked into some cheap motel to throw a tantrum. Just wait until Thanksgiving. She won't receive an invitation to our table for the next five years!"
"She's just jealous, Mom," Derek scoffed, tossing a cardboard box onto the grass.
"She knows I'm destined for bigger things. She couldn't stand the thought of me hosting business dinners in a house she paid for with night shifts."
At seven-fifty-five, a sleek navy Audi SUV turned the corner of the cul-de-sac, followed by a large white commercial van bearing the logo of Metropolitan Locksmith Services.
The two vehicles pulled into the driveway, blocking Derek's rental truck completely.
Derek dropped the cardboard box onto the lawn, scowling as the driver's door of the Audi swung open.
A tall, polished man in his early forties stepped out, wearing a charcoal wool overcoat and leather gloves, holding a black leather briefcase.
Beside him stepped out a woman in a beige trench coat, looking around the property with a bright, possessive smile.
"Hey! Buddy!" Derek shouted, marching toward the driveway with his chest puffed out.
"You're blocking my moving crew! Move your car to the street! We're unloading here!"
The man in the wool overcoat stopped, looking Derek up and down with calm, detached amusement.
"I believe you have the wrong address, sir," the man said smoothly, his voice carrying an effortless corporate authority.
"This is 412 Maple Ridge Lane."
"I know the address, idiot, I live here!" Derek barked, jabbing a thumb into his own chest.
"Now move your vehicle before I have the county sheriff tow it off my driveway!"
The man didn't flinch, nor did he raise his voice.
He simply clicked open his leather briefcase, pulled out an official manila folder, and withdrew a certified document stamped with the county recorder’s gold seal.
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"My name is Marcus Vance," the man announced clearly, looking past Derek toward my parents on the lawn.
"And as of eight o'clock this morning, my wife and I are the sole legal deed holders of this property."
