Chapter 4 - The Friday Deadline
Friday arrived with a cold, gray drizzle that turned the fallen leaves on Elm Street into soggy brown mush.
At 1:15 p.m., a sleek white luxury crossover pulled aggressively into the driveway of 742 Elm Street.
Thomas jumped out of the driver's side, wearing his expensive wool overcoat, his face pale and tense.
Jenna stepped out of the passenger side, clutching her designer purse, her makeup immaculate, wearing tall leather boots. She had unblocked my number two hours earlier to send three frantic text messages: Mom, Thomas is on his way over. Please be reasonable. We are family.
"I told you she wouldn't ignore us if we showed up in person," Jenna said, adjusting her designer scarf as they walked up the front walkway. "Old people get lonely. She’s probably sitting by the phone waiting for an apology."
"I just hope she has the cashier's check ready," Thomas muttered, wiping rain from his forehead. "The tax office closes at four o'clock, and my manager won't give me an advance on my commission."
They reached the front porch steps.
Thomas frowned, stopping in his tracks.
The front yard looked strangely vacant. The brass welcome mat that had sat outside the front door for twenty years was gone. The antique cast-iron bench Walter had painted every spring was missing.
"Where is Dad’s bench?" Thomas asked, looking around the bare porch.
Jenna waved her hand dismissively. "Probably put it in the garage for the winter. Knock on the door, Thomas. We don't have all day."
Thomas knocked firmly on the heavy oak door.
The sound echoed hollowly through the house, carrying that distinctive, cavernous reverberation that only exists inside an empty building.
"Mom!" Thomas called out, jiggling the brass doorknob. "Mom, it’s Thomas! Open up!"
The door was locked solid.
Thomas pulled his childhood key from his pocket, inserting it into the deadbolt. He turned it clockwise, but the cylinder refused to budge.
"What's wrong?" Jenna demanded, shivering in the cold mist.
"The key won't turn," Thomas stammered, pulling it out and inspecting the brass teeth. "She... she changed the locks?"
"She changed the locks?!" Jenna shrieked in disbelief. "How childish can an old woman be?! Go look through the living room window!"
Thomas stepped off the porch, walking through the wet flowerbeds to peer through the wide bay window.
He cupped his hands against the glass, squinting into the gloom.
The living room was completely bare.
The floral rugs were gone. The mahogany bookshelves were empty. The family portraits were missing from the walls, leaving only faint rectangular outlines on the pale yellow paint.
"Thomas?" Jenna called from the steps, her voice wavering with the first hint of genuine panic. "What do you see?"
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Thomas pressed his forehead against the cold glass, his jaw dropping open in sheer, unadulterated shock.
"There's nothing in there, Jenna," Thomas whispered, his voice cracking into a high, broken pitch. "Everything... everything is gone."
