Chapter 5: The Eviction of the Parasite
The rain was pouring heavily over Bayside Heights when the moving trucks arrived at the Hale estate.
I stood on the grand stone porch, protected by the wide awning, watching the court-appointed bailiffs carry out the remnants of Vivian’s six-year reign. Boxes of expensive clothes, gilded mirrors, and useless luxury goods were piled onto the wet driveway, covered in cheap blue plastic tarps.
Vivian stood in the center of the lawn, her white suit soaked through with mud and rain, her perfect blonde hair clinging to her face like wet straw. She looked small. For the first time in her life, she looked exactly like what she was—a predator stripped of its camouflage.
"You can't do this to me!" she screamed through the downpour, pointing a shaking finger at me. "I am Richard Hale’s wife! I have rights!"
"You had a marriage certificate, Vivian," I said, walking down the stone steps until I was standing at the edge of the grass. "But the court just granted an emergency annulment on the grounds of criminal fraud and elder abuse. You aren't his wife. You’re just a temporary tenant who stayed too long."
A black police cruiser pulled up behind the moving trucks. The door opened, and Marcus was led out in handcuffs, his expensive suit replaced by a bright orange county jumpsuit, his head bowed against the rain. He was being brought to the property to sign over the final release forms for the corporate vehicles he had stolen.
When he saw his mother standing in the mud, he let out a broken, pathetic sob. "Mom... they won't set bail. The judge said we're a flight risk because of the Delaware accounts."
Vivian didn't answer her son. She just stared at me, her eyes burning with a useless, impotent rage that could no longer touch my family.
"You think you're safe, Isabella?" she whispered, her voice raw from screaming. "You think you can just erase us? We built ourselves into every corner of this house! You’ll see our faces every time you walk down the hall!"
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object—the gold Rolex watch. I had recovered it from the police evidence locker an hour ago.
I walked past her, ignoring her completely, and handed the watch to my father, who was sitting in the front passenger seat of my car, the heater running, a warm blanket over his lap. He took the watch, his thumb gently smoothing over the engraved initials on the back: R.H. - To the future.
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"Let’s go home, Dad," I said, stepping into the driver's seat.
As we drove through the iron gates of the estate, I looked in the rearview mirror. Vivian and Marcus were left standing on the curb, their boxes of stolen luxury being soaked by the cold New York rain, while the blue lights of the police cruiser flashed against the stone pillars that no longer bore their name.
