Chapter 2 - THE MONROE HOUSEBy the time Grant’s black Mercedes turned onto West Paces Ferry Road, Patricia was screaming at everyone in the car.
“This is impossible!”
Melissa was frantically calling attorneys.
Grant drove with both hands locked around the steering wheel.
“You told me Dad owned it.”
“He did!”
“No, apparently he didn’t.”
“Your father built our life in that house!”
“That’s not the same thing as owning it, Mom.”
Patricia slapped the dashboard.
“Stop defending her!”
“I’m not defending Rebecca!”
“You married that woman!”
“And you loved her when Dad needed her family’s money!”
The words escaped before Grant could stop them.
Silence filled the car.
Melissa slowly looked up.
“What did you say?”
Grant stared ahead.
“Nothing.”
Patricia’s expression changed.
“Grant.”
He accelerated.
“I said nothing.”
But Melissa had heard.
And Patricia had too.
They reached the mansion six minutes later.
The gates were open.
Two sheriff’s vehicles sat near the circular driveway.
A moving truck occupied the lawn.
Boxes were everywhere.
Dining chairs.
Side tables.
Lamps.
Artwork.
Golf clubs.
Patricia’s antique writing desk.
A dozen gold banquet chairs she used for charity luncheons.
A deputy stood near the driveway speaking with a woman from an inventory company.
On the front steps, a locksmith was installing a new deadbolt.
Patricia screamed.
She was out of the car before Grant stopped completely.
“What are you doing?”
The deputy moved toward her.
“Ma’am—”
“This is my house!”
“Ma’am, I need you to stay off the property until—”
Patricia shoved past him.
The deputy caught her arm.
“Do not do that again.”
“Take your hands off me!”
Grant rushed over.
“Mom.”
“My things are on the grass!”
Another deputy approached.
“Mr. Monroe?”
Grant turned.
“Yes.”
“You were served with notice regarding the enforcement order?”
“No.”
The deputy checked a document.
“Service was accepted by your attorney at 10:42 this morning.”
Grant went still.
His attorney had said nothing.
Maybe because Grant had stormed out of court before the final paperwork was explained.
Or maybe because Grant had spent the last week refusing his attorney’s calls whenever the lawyer suggested the mansion situation was becoming dangerous.
“This can’t be legal,” Grant said.
The deputy remained calm.
“You’ll have to raise that with counsel. We’re executing a court order.”
Patricia pointed toward a portrait sitting beside a box.
“That belonged to my husband!”
The inventory supervisor checked her clipboard.
“Then it goes with you.”
Patricia blinked.
“You’re throwing me out?”
“No, ma’am. We’re removing personal property under the terms of the order.”
“I have lived here for twenty-three years!”
The woman gave her an almost sympathetic look.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t!”
Across the driveway, Melissa suddenly stopped.
“Mom.”
Patricia ignored her.
“Mom!”
“What?”
Melissa was pointing at the stone above the front entrance.
The number 3450 remained there.
But something else was being removed.
A brass plaque near the door.
For decades it had read:
MONROE HOUSE — EST. 2003
A worker unscrewed the final bolt.
Patricia stared at it like she was watching a gravestone being pulled from the earth.
“No.”
Grant grabbed his phone.
“I’m calling Rebecca.”
Patricia turned sharply.
“Yes. Call her. Tell her to stop this insanity.”
Grant dialed.
Rebecca answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Rebecca, what the hell are you doing?”
Her voice remained quiet.
“Following the court order.”
“My mother’s belongings are on the lawn.”
“They’re being inventoried and protected.”
“You could have given us time.”
“I did.”
Grant laughed bitterly.
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“What?”
“When you filed for divorce, my attorney sent your attorney documentation confirming ownership and offering your family ninety days to arrange another residence.”
Grant remembered the envelope.
He had never read it.
He had tossed it onto his office desk because Patricia assured him Rebecca was bluffing.
“My mother has nowhere to go.”
“That isn’t true.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Grant. I don’t.”
He moved farther from Patricia.
“Rebecca, please.”
It was the first time she had heard that word from him in months.
“Please what?”
“Stop the movers.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I won’t.”
His jaw tightened.
“Is this revenge?”
“No.”
“Then what do you call it?”
There was a pause.
“An ending.”
Grant looked toward the house.
His mother was crying now.
Not quietly.
Patricia Monroe had hosted governors, executives, charity boards, and society weddings behind those doors.
Now she stood surrounded by cardboard boxes while strangers changed the locks.
Grant lowered his voice.
“You humiliated us.”
Rebecca replied, “Grant, I wasn’t at your champagne lunch.”
His face tightened.
“How do you know about that?”
“Melissa posted it publicly.”
Grant looked at his sister.
Melissa quickly lowered her phone.
Rebecca continued.
“You humiliated yourselves.”
Then she hung up.
Grant stared at the dark screen.
Behind him, Patricia shouted again.
A worker had brought out three boxes from the library.
“Stop!”
She rushed toward them.
The deputy blocked her path.
“What’s in those?” she demanded.
The worker checked the labels.
“Financial records.”
Patricia’s face changed.
Grant noticed.
“What financial records?”
“Nothing.”
“Mom.”
“Your father’s old paperwork.”
The worker placed the boxes beside the inventory table.
Patricia moved toward them again.
“I need those.”
The deputy shook his head.
“They’re being documented first.”
Patricia suddenly looked terrified.
And Grant understood something.
His mother wasn’t merely angry about losing the house.
She was afraid of what the movers might find inside it.
“Mom,” he whispered.
She wouldn’t look at him.
“What is in those boxes?”
Patricia swallowed.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
That answer disturbed Grant more than any confession could have.
Then an inventory employee opened the first box.
And pulled out a folder bearing the letterhead of Hale Capital Holdings.
Rebecca’s father’s company.
Grant stared.
His mother stepped backward.
“Put that away.”
The employee opened another file.
Inside were twenty years of correspondence.
Contracts.
Bank statements.
Private agreements.
And one document signed by Grant’s late father.
At the top were the words:
PERSONAL GUARANTEE AND DEBT ACKNOWLEDGMENT.
Grant’s stomach dropped.
He looked at Patricia.
“What did Dad owe the Hales?”
Patricia said nothing.
Grant stepped closer.
“Mom.”
Her lips trembled.
“What did Dad owe Rebecca’s family?”
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Finally, Patricia whispered:
“Everything.”
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