Chapter 6 - The Exile of Lorraine
-6-
The next twenty minutes played out in a tense, suffocating silence broken only by the frantic slamming of dresser drawers upstairs and Lorraine’s shrill, panicked cries as she hurled her belongings into cheap plastic suitcases. She didn't pack like a grieving widow or an aggrieved mother; she packed like a looter fleeing a burning building, stuffing jewelry boxes, designer handbags, and cashmere sweaters into every available zipper compartment while screaming curses down the stairwell at both Andrew and me.
I stood in the entryway of the house, my arms crossed over my chest, watching her drag a heavy roller bag across the hardwood floor toward the front door.
"You think you’ve won, you ungrateful, heartless bitch," Lorraine spat as she stopped inches from my face, her eyes wild with venom. "You think kicking us out onto the street will protect you? Andrew is still my son. My blood runs through his veins. He will find a way to take back every single cent you think you've protected."
"Your son is currently sitting in his car writing a formal statement confessing to corporate embezzlement just to keep the Monroe County DA from seizing his passport," I replied softly, my voice completely devoid of emotion. "If I were you, Lorraine, I’d worry less about my bank accounts and more about finding a lawyer who accepts payment in cheap luggage."
She let out a guttural hiss of pure rage, raised her hand as if to strike me across the face—repeating the exact same aggressive impulse her son had inherited—before her fingers could graze my skin, Julian Vance stepped smoothly between us, his grip wrapping around her wrist with ironclad precision.
"I wouldn't advise that, Mrs. Parker," Julian said, his voice as cold as winter steel. "Assaulting a witness in a federal fraud investigation adds an automatic felony charge to your existing civil infractions. Step outside."
With a final, venomous glare that promised total destruction, Lorraine wrenched her arm free, grabbed her bags, and stormed out onto the front porch, descending the steps into the chilly night air where Andrew sat silently in his idling Audi, staring blankly through the windshield at the dashboard lights.
Sergeant Miller stood by the cruiser until the trunk of the Audi slammed shut, sealing their pathetic exit. With a polite nod in my direction, the deputy climbed back into his patrol car, flipped off his emergency strobes, and rolled slowly down Clover Hill Road, leaving the street bathed in the quiet, peaceful glow of suburban streetlights.
I closed the front door, threw the heavy deadbolt into place with a satisfying, metallic click, and leaned my back against the solid oak wood.
May you like
For the first time in two years, the house felt entirely mine. The air was clean, the silence was sacred, and the oppressive ghost of Lorraine’s constant criticism had finally been scrubbed from the walls.
I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of cold water, and pulled out my phone to dial Marcus Vance, my divorce attorney. It was time to draft the final, unassailable dissolution of a marriage built on lies, and to ensure that the woman who thought she could throw iron skillets at my head learned what happens when a paramedic finally decides to perform emergency surgery on her own life.
