Chapter 4 - The Immediate Eviction Notice
The primary master suite on the second floor of the estate was a fortress of soundproof glass and solid walnut doors. I carried Leo inside, bypassed the bedroom entirely, and walked directly into the master bathroom. I turned the brass handles of the Roman soaking tub, letting steaming, hot water cascade into the basin while I stripped the damp t-shirt and cold pajama bottoms from my son’s trembling frame.
I gently lowered him into the warm water. The moment the heat engulfed his chest, a long, shuddering sigh escaped his parted lips. I sat on the edge of the marble tub, rolling up the sleeves of my dress shirt, and used a warm, soapy washcloth to gently clean the algae and cold dirt from his small, calloused feet.
Leo watched my face intently through the steam. He reached up a wet hand, touching the back of his fingers to my cheek—the ASL sign for father, modified with a slow, lingering pressure that meant are you okay?
Even after being subjected to hours of psychological and physical cruelty by the people who were supposed to protect him, his first instinct was to check on my emotional state. A hot, burning tear pricked the corner of my eye, but I forced my expression to remain strong and reassuring.
I am fine, I signed back with my dry right hand, smiling down at him. We are going to order the biggest hamburger in Oregon tonight. With extra bacon.
A faint, brilliant smile broke across his pale face. He nodded enthusiastically, sinking deeper into the warm water until only his chin and his large brown eyes were visible above the bubbles.
While Leo soaked, I stepped into my walk-in closet and pulled two large, heavy-duty ballistic travel duffels from the top shelf. I didn't pack Brenda’s things. I walked into Leo’s bedroom down the hall—wincing as I saw that his specialized vibrating visual-alarm clock had been unplugged and shoved into a closet by someone—and systematically began packing his entire life into the bags. His favorite denim jackets, his ASL storybooks, his custom-built balsa wood airplane models, his medical records, and the dry-erase tablets we used when traveling.
I returned to the master suite, dressed Leo in thick, warm fleece trackpants and a hooded sweatshirt, and sat him on the king-sized bed with my iPad cued to his favorite animated series.
Then, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed a number I hadn't used for personal matters in over a decade.
“Thorne Legal,” a crisp, professional voice answered on the second ring despite the evening hour.
“Marcus,” I said, pacing the length of my bedroom window while watching the rain beat against the glass. “It’s Arthur Vance. I need an emergency intervention team at my Silver Pines property at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I want two senior family law litigators, a certified residential asset inventory specialist, and a private security detail.”
Marcus Thorne, the senior managing partner of the most ruthless civil litigation firm in Portland, paused for only a fraction of a second. “Are you initiating dissolution proceedings against Brenda, Arthur?”
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“I am initiating immediate eviction and full asset severance,” I replied coldly. “She and her mother locked Leo in the detached greenhouse for three hours today because he didn't respond to verbal commands. I want them out of my house before noon tomorrow. And Marcus? Review the morality and child-welfare clauses in the prenuptial agreement we executed two years ago. I don't want her leaving this marriage with a single dollar of my equity.”
“I’m pulling the vault file right now,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into the predatory, efficient tone that had earned him his reputation. “Take your boy somewhere safe tonight, Arthur. By the time my team finishes with her tomorrow morning, she won't even own the designer luggage she packed her clothes in.”
