Chapter 1 - The Weight of the Sledgehammer
The sound of the glass shattering was the most beautiful music I had heard in three years,
it was a sharp,
final,
and deafening crescendo that silenced Bernice’s shrieking voice.
The heavy sledgehammer felt light in my hands,
as if the weight of my father’s dignity was propelling every swing.
I watched the amber liquid soak into the expensive white rug,
the one Bernice insisted I vacuum twice a day because "country dirt" followed me everywhere.
The air in the living room grew thick with the scent of cheap tequila,
a harsh,
chemical smell that betrayed the lie of the eighty-thousand-dollar price tag.
Bernice was on her knees now,
her manicured hands hovering over the shards of glass,
her face a mask of pure,
unadulterated horror.
"Do you have any idea what you’ve done?"
she hissed,
her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and disbelief.
"That was Scott’s legacy,
that was our family’s pride!"
I looked down at her,
feeling nothing but a cold,
hollow sense of justice.
"Pride doesn't come in a bottle,
Bernice,"
I said,
my voice as steady as a surgeon’s hand.
"And legacy isn't built on lies and the humiliation of others."
I stepped over a large piece of the display case,
the glass crunching beneath my boots.
I took the waterproof folder from my jacket,
the plastic cool against my skin,
and tossed it onto the coffee table.
It landed with a dull thud,
right next to her designer handbag that I had secretly paid for last Christmas.
"Read it,"
I commanded,
my eyes never leaving hers.
She reached out,
her fingers shaking so much she could barely grip the paper.
She pulled out the deed,
her eyes scanning the legal jargon until they landed on the name of the owner.
The color drained from her face,
leaving her skin the color of old parchment.
"Caroline Vance?"
she whispered,
the name sounding foreign in her mouth.
"But this house... Scott said his firm bought this house."
"Scott’s firm is a shell,
Bernice,"
I replied,
crossing my arms over my chest.
"It’s a playground for his ego that has been bleeding money since the day he started it."
"I didn't marry him for his money,
because he never had any to begin with."
"I married him because I thought he was a man of character,"
"a man who would respect the woman who stood by him."
I walked toward the window and looked out into the yard,
where the dog was still chewing on my father’s chicken.
The sight of that golden,
dirt-stained meat made my stomach twist with a fresh wave of anger.
My father had woken up in the dark,
in the cold,
just to show me he loved me.
And this woman had treated his sacrifice like waste.
"The car in the garage?"
I continued,
turning back to her.
"Paid for by me."
"The vacations to the Maldives?"
"Funded by the trust my grandmother left in my name."
"Even the very air you breathe in this house is a gift from the 'country girl' you despise."
The doorbell rang,
a sharp,
insistent sound that broke the tension.
"That will be Mr. Henderson,"
I said,
walking toward the hallway.
"He’s a notary and a legal representative for my estate."
Bernice looked up at me,
her eyes wide with a sudden,
feral fear.
"You can't do this,
Caroline.
We’re family!"
"Family doesn't throw a father's love to the dogs,"
I said,
opening the door.
"Now,
stay on your knees,
Bernice."
"It’s the most honest position you’ve been in for years."
The notary stepped inside,
briefcase in hand,
looking at the wreckage with professional indifference.
"Is everything ready,
Mrs. Vance?"
he asked.
"Yes,"
I replied,
May you like
looking at the shattered bottle and the trembling woman on the floor.
"Let’s begin the eviction."
