I watched him on the doorbell camera. He wasn’t alone. Lorraine was with him, now dressed in a borrowed tracksuit that was two sizes too small, looking like a disgruntled pomegranate. Daniel was wearing his “respectable” blazer, the one he wore when he was trying to convince investors that their money was safe with him.
He hammered on the door. Not a knock—a demand.
“Claire! Open this door right now! We are not doing this through a piece of wood!”
I didn’t open the door. I walked to the foyer and leaned against the wall, my phone already connected to Rebecca Thorne, my attorney, who was listening on speakerphone from her home office.
“I told you not to come here, Daniel,” I said through the door.
“This is my marital residence!” he shouted. “I have a right to be here! You can’t just lock me out of my own life because you’re having a tantrum!”
“It isn’t your residence,” Rebecca’s voice came through the speaker, calm and terrifyingly precise. “Hello, Mr. Whitmore. This is Rebecca Thorne. I suggest you lower your voice. You are currently on a recorded line. Based on the documentation my client has provided, you have no legal claim to this property. Furthermore, the fraud department at First National has already been notified of your forged signature. If you strike that door again, I will personally call the precinct and have you picked up for domestic disturbance.”
Daniel went silent. I could see him through the peephole—his shoulders slumped, the confidence draining out of him like air from a punctured tire.
“Claire,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against the door. “Please. My mom… she has nowhere to go. We’ve already moved her things out of her old place. We’re stuck.”
“Where are we supposed to go?” Lorraine wailed in the background, her voice echoing down the hall. “You’re throwing an old woman onto the street!”
