Chapter 2: The Fortress of Solitude
“Front gate, this is Marcus,” the gruff voice of the head security guard crackled through the receiver.
“Marcus, it’s Ms. Mercer,” I said, leaning against the cold quartz counter. “I need you to initiate a total lockdown. There are to be absolutely no visitors tonight unless I personally walk down there and authorize them. No exceptions.”
“Understood, Ms. Mercer. Gate is sealed.”
I hung up and immediately dialed my attorney, Natalie Brooks. As the phone rang, I began mentally connecting a series of bizarre, fragmented dots that had plagued the last month of my life. Caleb had been behaving erratically. He was taking whispered phone calls in the garage at midnight. He had casually, repeatedly inquired about the current market appraisal of the property. Just last week, he had exhibited a sudden, intense interest in the legal mechanics of adding a spouse to a pre-existing deed.
I had brushed it off as insecurity. Now, I recognized it as reconnaissance.
Natalie answered on the third ring. I gave her a rapid, sterile rundown of Caleb’s demand.
“Vivian,” Natalie said, her voice dropping into its professional, litigious register. “Stay inside the house. Do not engage in a physical confrontation. If they try to force entry, you call the police immediately. Let the private security handle the perimeter.”
“I have no intention of leaving, Nat. But something is horribly wrong. He didn’t want a quiet dinner. He wanted the house empty.”
At exactly 7:08 PM, the gate intercom on my kitchen wall chimed, interrupting my thoughts.
“Security to Ms. Mercer,” Marcus’s voice echoed. “Your husband has arrived. He has two guests in the vehicle.”
I walked over to the digital wall panel and tapped the screen to activate the entrance camera feed.
The high-definition monitor flared to life. Caleb’s SUV was idling at the heavy iron gates. He was currently standing outside the driver’s side door, aggressively gesturing at Marcus through the guardhouse window. But that wasn’t what made the blood freeze in my veins.
Denise was standing on the asphalt. She wasn’t carrying a casserole dish or a bottle of wine for a family dinner. She was gripping the handle of a massive, hard-shell suitcase.
And Mason was standing right beside her, conversing with a man wearing a dark blue work shirt. The man was holding a heavy canvas tool bag. Painted on the side of his idling van were the words: Precision Lock & Safe.
I stared unblinkingly at the glowing monitor. A locksmith.
Caleb hadn’t invited his family over for a tense evening meal. They had arrived fully prepared to fundamentally alter the architecture of my security. They were here to take possession.
