The phone rang once. Twice.
A deep voice answered. “Mr. Reynolds,” I said, my voice steady and devoid of emotion.
“It’s Sarah. Execute the eviction protocol. Immediately.
I have trespassers on the property who have assaulted the landlord.”
“Copy that, Ms. Miller,” the voice crackled. “We are two minutes out.
Sheriff Miller is with us.”
I hung up and placed the phone on the table, right next to the cake. My father stood up from the sofa, crushing his beer can. “Who was that?
What the hell are you talking about? ‘Landlord’? Have you lost your mind?”
“Get out,” Karen scoffed.
“She’s having a breakdown. Dad, throw her out.”
I didn’t move. I looked at my watch.
“You have about ninety seconds.”
“To do what?” Linda demanded, brandishing the knife again. “To process the fact that your life is over,” I said. Before she could respond, sirens wailed from the street.
Not the distant whine of a passing ambulance, but the sharp, aggressive whoop-whoop of law enforcement pulling into the driveway. Blue and red lights flashed through the sheer curtains, painting the dingy living room in a chaotic strobe. Heavy boots stomped on the porch stairs.
The front door, which I had left unlocked, flew open. It wasn’t party guests. Sheriff Miller, a man of six-foot-four with a face like carved granite, stepped in.
Behind him were four men in grey uniforms with the logo Titan Property Management & Eviction. They carried empty cardboard boxes and zip-ties. “What is going on here?” Frank bellowed, trying to muster his old patriarchal authority.
Continue reading…
