Chapter 6 - The Return to the Ruins
Dylan spent the remaining thirty-six hours in Florida in a state of mounting panic and fury.
His credit cards were maxed out. His joint debit card was completely unusable. He had to swallow his pride and ask Courtney to put the remaining hotel balance on her personal credit card—a request that resulted in a screaming argument in the hotel lobby, during which she called him a ""deadbeat fraud"" and stormed off to the airport in her own Uber.
By the time Dylan landed at John Glenn Columbus International Airport on Friday evening, he was exhausted, sunburned, hungover, and vibrating with righteous indignation.
""She’s lost her mind,"" he raged aloud to himself as he waited in the baggage claim area for his Samsonite suitcase. ""She actually called the bank and put a freeze on our savings over a vacation. I swear to God, she has completely lost her mind.""
He hailed a yellow cab, promising the driver a cash tip from the emergency stash he kept hidden inside his desk drawer at home.
The cab pulled onto Maple Crest Lane just as the streetlights were flickering on in the cold November twilight.
The house was dark.
No warm yellow lamps glowing in the living room window. No smell of roasting chicken or simmering chili wafting toward the front walkway. Just an imposing, silent silhouette against the autumn sky.
""Wait here,"" Dylan snapped at the cab driver, hauling his suitcase out of the trunk. ""I need to get cash from inside to pay your fare.""
He marched up the brick steps, shoved his brass key into the lock, and threw the front door open, preparing his opening salvo.
""Amanda! What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you have any idea the kind of embarrassment you put me through—""
His voice echoed off the walls.
The sound bounced, hollow and sharp, through the entryway.
Dylan froze.
The entryway runner rug was gone. The antique side table where we kept our mail was gone. The coat rack was gone.
He stumbled forward into the living room, flipping the wall switch.
The overhead lights illuminated a vast, terrifying expanse of empty hardwood flooring. The sofa was gone. The television was gone. The coffee table, the floor lamps, the sheer curtains on the bay windows—everything had been stripped down to the baseboards.
""Amanda?"" he called, his voice dropping from an angry roar to a trembling, high-pitched squeak. ""Amanda!""
He dropped his suitcase. The navy-blue Samsonite fell flat against the floorboards with a heavy, dead thwack.
He sprinted up the stairs, his boots thundering through the vacant house.
He threw open the master bedroom door.
The bed was stripped down to the bare mattress. The bedside lamps were missing. He ran to the walk-in closet and yanked the door open.
On the left side hung all of his clothes: his shirts, his jackets, his trousers, hung with mocking perfection.
On the right side: three dozen empty plastic and wire hangers swaying gently in the draft from the heating vent.
Dylan stumbled backward into the hallway, clutching his chest as if the oxygen in the house had suddenly been sucked through an open window.
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He ran back down the stairs, tripping on the bottom step and catching himself on the banister. He stumbled toward the dining room.
There, in the center of the mahogany table, illuminated by the cold glare of the chandelier, sat a single white envelope, a thick stack of paper, and a gleaming circle of white gold.
