Chapter 6 - The Green Armchair
The sun was just beginning to rise over Columbus when the taxi dropped us off at the house.
The property looked dead. Without power, the windows were black, the manicured lawn looking oddly overgrown in the grey morning light.
Gavin’s SUV was not in the driveway. He hadn't come home. He was likely with Chloe, trying to figure out how to salvage his double life now that it had spectacularly exploded.
“Come on,” I told Alyssa, unlocking the front door.
We didn't stop in the house. We walked straight through the kitchen, out the back patio doors, and toward the old wooden storage shed at the edge of the property.
I unlocked the heavy padlock. The shed smelled of gasoline, old lawn clippings, and dust.
Sitting in the corner, covered by a gray plastic tarp, was my old green armchair.
I pulled the tarp off. It looked exactly as it had the day Walter bought it. Faded velvet, sturdy wooden legs.
“How do we open it?” Alyssa asked, her hands resting protectively over her stomach.
I didn't answer. I walked over to Walter’s old toolbox on the shelf, grabbed a utility knife, and walked back to the chair. I knelt down, found the seam at the bottom of the cushion, and sliced the fabric wide open.
Alyssa gasped as yellowed foam and cotton stuffing spilled out onto the floor.
I reached my hand deep into the lining of the chair, feeling around the wooden frame. For a terrible moment, I felt nothing but springs and dust. Then, my fingers brushed against something hard and flat, taped securely to the back panel.
I pulled it loose.
It was a thick, waterproof pouch, sealed with wax.
My hands shook as I broke the wax seal and opened the pouch. Inside was a stack of pristine, notarized legal documents and a handwritten letter sealed in a smaller envelope.
I handed the legal documents to Alyssa. She opened them, reading the bold, legal print in the dim light of the shed.
“Eleanor,” Alyssa whispered, her eyes scanning the pages rapidly. “This is an Irrevocable Trust. The deed to the house was transferred into this trust twenty years ago.”
“Read the terms,” I said, my heart pounding against my ribs.
“‘The property shall remain the primary residence of Eleanor Davis for the duration of her natural life,’” Alyssa read aloud, her voice gaining strength. “‘Upon her passing, the property shall bypass Gavin Davis entirely and transfer directly to the firstborn heir of his bloodline. Furthermore, should Gavin Davis attempt to encumber, mortgage, or sell this property, the trust mandates his immediate eviction, and any debts incurred using the property as collateral shall be deemed fraudulent and void.’”
A wave of profound relief washed over me.
Walter had known. Even twenty years ago, when Gavin was just a teenager constantly stealing money from the hardware store register, Walter had known the kind of man our son would become. He had legally bulletproofed my home.
The forged second mortgage Gavin had taken out wasn't just illegal; it was completely unenforceable. The bank couldn't foreclose on a house that was owned by a trust they didn't know existed.
I looked down at the smaller envelope in my hand. It was addressed to me, in Walter’s familiar scrawl.
I opened it.
My dearest Ellie,
If you are reading this, it means our boy finally let his greed outrun his sense. I’m sorry I didn't tell you about the trust. You always loved him too much to see what he was. You would have fought me on it, hoping he would change. I needed to make sure you always had a roof over your head, no matter what he did. Don’t let him bully you, Ellie. Take back your house.
Love, Walter.
Tears spilled over my cheeks, dropping onto the old paper.
“Eleanor,” Alyssa said softly, stepping closer. “What do we do now?”
I looked at the daughter-in-law who was carrying Walter’s great-grandchild. I looked at the trust documents in her hands.
“Now,” I said, wiping my eyes and standing up straight. “We call a lawyer. And then we pack my son’s bags.”
Suddenly, the heavy wooden door of the shed slammed shut, plunging us into near darkness.
I spun around.
Standing in the narrow sliver of light coming through the dusty window was Gavin.
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He didn't look like a successful businessman anymore. His shirt was untucked, his eyes bloodshot, and he was holding a heavy steel crowbar from the workbench.
“You know, Mom,” Gavin said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “I really wish you hadn't found that.”
