Chapter 7 - The Unyielding Lock
"That was twelve years ago!" Mom shrieked, losing all pretense of maternal authority. "You hold grudges like a venomous snake! We gave you life, Paige! I carried you in my womb! If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even exist to have this house! You owe me!"
"I owe you nothing, Diane," I answered. "Not a bedroom. Not a dollar. Not a single square foot of my land."
Grant stepped up beside Mallory, his jaw clenched, trying to use an intimidating posture against the security camera. "Listen here, sister-in-law. We've got a loaded truck blocking this entire entrance. The sun is going down, and it's starting to pour. If you think I'm going to turn around and sleep in a parking lot with my kids while you sit inside a five-bedroom mansion, you've got another thing coming. You open this gate right now, or I'm taking a tow strap from my truck, hooking it to these fancy iron bars, and ripping them right off their hinges."
I couldn't help but let out a small, quiet laugh. It wasn't hysterical; it was the laugh of a woman who had spent a decade studying structural engineering, commercial security, and the rule of law.
"Grant," I said calmly, "I strongly advise you to look at the metal plaque mounted directly beneath the intercom."
Grant leaned forward, squinting through the rain at the bronze plate.
"Read it aloud, Grant," I instructed.
"'Vance Architectural Restorations - Commercial Facility and Registered Heavy Equipment Yard,'" he muttered reluctantly.
"This is not zoned as a standard residential property," I explained. "This property is registered as an industrial fabrication plant and private sanctuary. Those gate posts aren't decorative hollow aluminum set in wet dirt. They are eight-inch solid steel H-beams encased in four yards of reinforced concrete, sunk eight feet into solid bedrock. If you hook your six-cylinder rental truck to those gates and hit the gas, the only thing you will rip off is your own rear axle."
May you like
Grant’s face dropped. He stepped back and kicked the gravel in impotent frustration.
"Furthermore," I added, glancing at the second monitor on my wall, "the moment you placed unauthorized furniture on this private driveway and threatened structural damage over the intercom, my automated security system flagged a commercial trespassing violation. A patrol unit from the County Sheriff’s Department was dispatched six minutes ago. Their substation is at the junction three miles west. If I were you, I’d have that sofa back in the truck before they round the bend."
