Chapter 4 - The House of Cards
The afternoon sun was blindingly bright as Marcus stepped out of the county jail. He adjusted the collar of his wrinkled shirt, his head pounding from a night on a concrete bench. His mother had wired the bail money, and he was seething. How dare Claire do this to him? Over a slap? Women were so overly sensitive.
He pulled out his phone, ready to call an Uber, fully intending to go back to the house, pack his golf clubs, and drain their joint account before crashing at his buddy Nolan’s place.
But his phone had no service.
Frowning, he tried to log into his banking app. A red banner flashed across the screen: ACCOUNT FROZEN. PLEASE CONTACT FRAUD DEPARTMENT.
Panic fluttered in his chest, but he pushed it down. It was a glitch. He hailed a cab and gave the driver our address.
When he arrived at the beautiful, two-story colonial home I had purchased three years before I met him, he found his expensive Italian leather suitcases piled unceremoniously on the front lawn next to the sprinklers.
“What the hell?” he muttered, marching up to the front door. He jammed his key into the lock, but it wouldn't turn. The locks had been changed.
Suddenly, the door swung open. But it wasn't me standing there. It was a private security guard I had hired that morning, standing six-foot-four with arms like tree trunks.
“Can I help you?” the guard asked, his voice a low rumble.
“This is my house!” Marcus yelled, trying to push past him. “Get out of my way!”
The guard didn't budge an inch. He simply reached into his pocket and handed Marcus a thick, manila envelope. “You have been served. By order of the court, you are in violation of a restraining order by being on this property. You have exactly thirty seconds to take your bags and leave before I call the police and have your bail revoked.”
Marcus ripped open the envelope. Inside was the restraining order, but behind it was a massive stack of financial documents.
His eyes widened in sheer horror as he flipped through the pages. The Delaware LLC. The sports betting ledgers. The forged HELOC application. The lease agreement for the downtown loft. I had found it all. And attached to the front was a letter from my attorney, informing him that his assets were frozen pending a federal investigation for fraud and embezzlement.
“No, no, no,” Marcus gasped, stumbling backward off the porch.
He pulled out his phone and desperately connected to the neighbor's open Wi-Fi. He dialed Nolan.
“Nolan, man, I need a place to crash. Claire went crazy, she locked me out—”
“Don’t call me again, Marcus,” Nolan’s voice was cold, distant.
“What? Bro, it’s me. We’re boys.”
“The police showed up at my office this morning, Marcus. They questioned me about the assault. My boss found out. I’m on administrative leave. My wife kicked me out because of what you did. You're radioactive. Lose my number.” The line went dead.
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Marcus stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by his expensive luggage, the reality of his situation crashing down on him. The smug, powerful man who had demanded a steak dinner twenty-four hours earlier was gone. In his place was a broke, homeless criminal staring at the fortress he had just been banished from.
From the second-story nursery window, hidden behind the sheer curtains, I rocked Lily against my chest and watched him drag his bags down the street. I didn't feel an ounce of pity. The house of cards had fallen, and I was holding the match.
