Chapter 11 - The Walk of ShameAt 9:18 PM, the rain outside had turned into a cold, driving downpour.
Evan stood in the foyer of the Gold Coast mansion, holding a single garbage bag stuffed with a handful of shirts, two pairs of trousers, and his passport. Water still dripped from his hair onto his ruined designer suit. Beside him, Diane clutched her handbag, her eyes wide with frantic, uncomprehending shock as Deputy Miller stood over them, checking his watch.
“Time’s up,” Deputy Miller said flatly. “Step through the door.”
“Wait,” Evan choked out, turning back to look at me as I stood at the foot of the grand staircase with my arms crossed. “Claire, my watch collection—my cuff links in the master safe—”
“Those items were purchased using funds drawn from our joint household checking account,” my attorney, Eleanor, interjected smoothly, holding her legal pad. “Since those accounts are currently frozen under a court-issued temporary asset order, all contents remain on the premises pending a full forensic audit.”
“You’re stealing from my son!” Diane wailed, pointing a shaking finger at me. “You heartless gold-digger! You lured him into this marriage to ruin him!”
Deputy Miller took Diane firmly by the elbow. “Ma’am, if you raise your voice again, I will arrest you on the spot for obstruction and criminal trespass. Move.”
The heavy oak door swung open, exposing the dark, rain-swept street.
Evan hesitated on the threshold, looking back into the warm, chandelier-lit foyer—the grandeur he had bragged about for three long years, the status he had used to puff himself up in front of colleagues and relatives. He looked like a child being locked out in the cold.
Deputy Miller nudged him forward.
Evan stepped out onto the wet stone porch in his damp socks, having forgotten his shoes in his panic. The heavy brass door clicked shut behind them, followed by the deep, metallic thud of the electronic deadbolt engaging.
I stood in the silent foyer for a long moment, listening to the muffled sound of the rain outside.
Eleanor turned to me, a fierce, satisfied smile touching her lips. “The locksmith is downstairs changing the perimeter access codes right now. Every smart-lock credential linked to Evan’s phone has been revoked.”
I took a deep, clean breath—the first real breath I felt I had taken in three years.
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“How long until the state attorney reviews the camera footage?” I asked.
“I personally delivered the digital encrypted file to the Cook County Prosecutor’s office twenty minutes ago,” Eleanor replied, clicking her pen closed. “By eight o’clock tomorrow morning, Evan Mercer and Diane Mercer won’t just be homeless, Claire. They’re going to be facing a grand jury.”
