Chapter 8 - The Lockout
By Thursday morning, my attending physician signed my discharge papers. My lungs were still weak, requiring me to take short, measured breaths and carry a portable rescue inhaler in my purse, but I was medically cleared to return home.
And I was going home to a house entirely purged of parasites.
I arrived at my property at noon, seated in the passenger side of Marcus’s black SUV. Flanking us were two private security vehicles and a professional locksmith van. The seventy-two-hour notice to vacate had officially expired at 11:59 AM. Julian was still sitting in a holding cell downtown awaiting his bail hearing for violating the restraining order, which left only Eleanor to face the reality of the eviction.
We walked up the cobblestone driveway just as the locksmith began drilling out the deadbolts on the mahogany front door. The sound brought Eleanor screaming out of the kitchen, dressed in her signature silk robe, holding a half-empty bottle of gin by the neck.
“What are you doing?” she shrieked, staggering onto the front porch, her hair wild and uncombed. “You can’t break into my son’s house! I’ll call the police! I’ll have you all thrown in jail for burglary!”
I stepped out from behind Marcus, my winter coat zipped to my chin, looking her dead in the eye.
“The police are already here, Eleanor,” I said, gesturing to the patrol car that had pulled up to the curb to monitor the court-ordered property transfer. “And the locksmith isn't breaking in. He is changing the locks on my house. Your seventy-two hours are up.”
Eleanor stared at me, her mouth working silently as she realized the sheer permanence of what was happening. She looked past me, scanning the driveway. “Where is Julian? Where is my son? Why isn't he here to stop this outrage?”
“Your son is currently in the county jail for trespassing and assault,” Marcus informed her coldly, handing her a printed inventory list. “We have hired a professional moving company to pack your clothes and personal items. They have already boxed your belongings from the guest bedroom. They are sitting on the driveway in those thirty plastic bins.”
I walked past Eleanor, stepping over the threshold into my house for the first time in days. The air smelled stale, a mixture of unwashed dishes and spilled alcohol, but it was mine. I turned back to face her as she stood shivering on the porch.
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“You told me I would be sleeping in the gutter by tonight, Eleanor,” I said, my voice steady and clear. “I suggest you call a taxi and find a cheap motel. Because if you step one foot over this doormat again, the officers at the curb will arrest you for trespassing.”
The locksmith clicked the new, heavy-duty brass deadbolt into place, and I shut the solid oak door directly in her face.
