“I said, call them, Brittany.” I took a slow step forward, forcing her to step back. “Tell them you are trespassing on a property whose deed is solely in my name. Tell them you diverted over sixty thousand dollars of my money—money explicitly meant for my father’s heart medication and my mother’s care—to buy Prada shoes, while forcing a man with severe angina to do manual labor in hundred-degree heat.”
Brittany’s sneer wavered. A flicker of confusion crossed her eyes. “Your name? You’re delusional. David owns this house.”
“David was granted power of attorney over a joint account,” I corrected, my tone surgical. “An account I just liquidated. This property was bought in cash through an LLC of which I am the sole proprietor. You own absolutely nothing here. Not the wood you are standing on. Not the ice in that glass. Not the data on the phone you are holding.”
As if on cue, Brittany’s phone buzzed violently in her hand. Then it chimed. Then it buzzed again.
She looked down, annoyed, and tapped the screen. I watched the blood rapidly drain from her face, leaving her spray-tan looking like dirt smeared on a corpse.
ALERT: Credit Card Ending in 4409 Suspended.
ALERT: Scheduled Payment to Mercedes-Benz Financial DECLINED.
ALERT: Checking Account Balance: $0.00.
“What did you do?” she whispered, her voice suddenly small, the bravado evaporating like water on a hot stove.
“You have exactly three minutes to get off my property with whatever you can carry in your bare hands,” I continued, raising my left arm and tapping the face of my cheap, scratched watch. “At minute four, I dial 911. I show the police the video I just took from the end of the driveway of you verbally and physically abusing elderly dependents. That’s a felony in the state of Georgia. You will leave in handcuffs.”
“You can’t do this!” Brenda shrieked, suddenly dropping her iced tea. The glass shattered on the wooden floorboards, splashing cold liquid across Brittany’s six-hundred-dollar sandals. “We live here!”
“Two minutes and forty seconds,” I stated, stepping past them toward the front door.
The realization hit them like a freight train. The illusion of their empire vanished, exposing the terrifying reality of their immediate, inescapable poverty. Within ninety seconds, the sneering queens of the porch were literally on their knees amidst the shattered glass. Brittany began to sob violently, lunging forward and clawing at the fabric of my cheap, frayed jeans.
“Please, Samantha! Please, I’m sorry! We have nowhere to go! David will kill me, he’s going to kill me! Please, end this, put the money back, I’ll do anything!” she wailed, tears carving streaks through her heavy makeup.
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