Chapter 7 - The Eviction
The next morning, the sun rose over San Francisco, but the warmth did not reach the inside of my high-rise condo.
I sat on my Italian leather sofa, a fresh white bandage taped securely over the seven stitches running along my temple. On the glass coffee table sat a hot cup of black coffee, my laptop, and a thick stack of legal documents delivered by my personal attorney, Marcus Cole.
Marcus was a ruthless corporate litigator who had been a close friend of my late father. When I called him from the hospital at two in the morning, he didn't just agree to take my case—he mobilized his entire firm.
"The police raided the estate all night," Marcus said, pacing across my living room while reviewing a digital tablet. "They found human remains on the North Ridge. Preliminary dental records match Rebecca Torres. Adrian, Julian, and Charles are being held without bail at the county jail. The DA is filing aggravated assault and first-degree murder charges by noon."
"What about Eleanor?" I asked, taking a slow, careful sip of coffee.
"She posted a high-value bond through a private bail bondsman using the vineyard estate as collateral," Marcus said, frowning. "She's currently free, pending formal indictment for conspiracy and fraud."
"She won't be free for long," I replied. "Did you execute the paperwork?"
"Twenty minutes ago," Marcus smirked. "All joint accounts have been frozen under emergency court order. The title to this condo was never in Adrian’s name—you bought it before the marriage with your own funds. He has zero legal claim to this property."
Suddenly, the electronic chime of my front door rang.
Not a polite ring, but a frantic, continuous pounding that echoed through the foyer.
"Claire! Open this door right now!" Eleanor’s muffled, hysterical voice carried through the solid wood.
I looked at Marcus. He simply gave me a slow, approving nod and tapped the screen of his phone, activating the audio recording.
I stood up, walked to the door, and swung it open, leaving the heavy security chain in place.
Eleanor stood in the carpeted hallway, looking completely unhinged. Her designer trench coat was wrinkled, her signature pearl necklace was missing, and her hair was a disheveled mess. Behind her, two burly men in moving uniforms stood next to several large rolling carts stacked high with vintage luggage and antique furniture boxes.
She had actually brought moving vans to my building.
"What is the meaning of this?" Eleanor screeched, waving a piece of paper in my face. "The concierge tried to block my movers from the freight elevator! He said I wasn't authorized on the property!"
I looked past her at the movers, who looked deeply uncomfortable.
"You're not authorized," I said calmly. "You don't live here. You will never live here."
"My son is in jail because of your lies!" she screamed, her face contorting with rage. "The banks froze our operating accounts! The estate is surrounded by news vans! I have nowhere else to go! This is my son's home, which makes it my home!"
"Adrian doesn't own a single square inch of this apartment, Eleanor," I said, my voice ice-cold. "And neither do you."
"You selfish, arrogant little orphan!" she hissed, lunging forward to grab the doorframe. "You owe us! We gave you our family name! We gave you status!"
"Your family name is currently scrolling across the bottom of every news broadcast in Northern California next to the words Murder Syndicate," I replied.
I took a step back and looked at the two movers.
"Gentlemen, if you don't remove those boxes from this hallway in thirty seconds, building security and the SFPD will have you arrested for trespassing and accessory to criminal harassment."
The two movers immediately dropped their carts, apologized profusely, and practically sprinted toward the service elevators.
"Get back here!" Eleanor shrieked at them. She turned back to me, her eyes wide with desperation. "Claire, please... you have millions in liquid stock. Just give me fifty thousand dollars for a hotel and legal fees. Just fifty thousand! I am Adrian's mother!"
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"You're the mother of a murderer," I said.
And with that, I slammed the heavy door right in her face.
