Chapter 5 - The Price of Greed
Michael looked like he was going to throw up. He looked at the deed, then at me, his eyes wide with a sudden, desperate realization of just how utterly destroyed they were.
"Daniel, please," Michael begged, dropping his bags and stepping forward, his hands raised in surrender. "We made a mistake. We got carried away with the money. But we're your blood! You can't let us go to sleep on the street! I have car payments, I have credit card debts—"
"Then you better get a job at a diner, Michael," I said, throwing his own words back at him. "Just like Emily did when she supported me. Let’s see how many shifts you can handle before your hands bleed."
"This is all that bitch’s fault!" Ashley exploded, lunging toward the staircase as if she wanted to go up and drag Emily down. "She manipulated you! She played the victim the second she saw your car pull up!"
Before she could take two steps, the massive front doors of the mansion swung open. Four uniformed LAPD officers stepped into the foyer, their faces grim. Behind them were two private security guards I had personally hired to replace the compromised gate staff.
"Mr. Carter," the lead officer said, nodding to me. "We received the report regarding a civil trespass and violation of an active protective order."
"Yes, Officer," I said, pointing directly at my mother, sister, and brother. "These individuals have been stripped of their residency status on this property. They are currently refusing to leave and have threatened the property owner, my wife."
Margaret’s jaw dropped. "Daniel! You are putting your own mother in handcuffs?"
"If you don't walk out those doors right now, Mom, yes," I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "The choice is yours. Walk out with your luggage, or walk out in the back of a squad car."
The officers stepped forward, their hands resting on their utility belts. "Ma'am, let's move it. Now."
The humiliation was absolute. Margaret, who prided herself on being the queen of Beverly Hills society, had to drag her own massive Louis Vuitton suitcases down the driveway under the watchful eyes of the police. Ashley was sobbing hysterically, her designer heels clicking frantically against the asphalt, while Michael followed silently, his head buried in his hands.
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As the police cruisers escorted their luxury SUVs—which would be repossessed by the bank by noon tomorrow—out of the security gates, I watched the iron barriers slide shut.
The parasites were officially gone. The gates were locked. For the first time in five years, my home felt safe.
