Chapter 67 - The Scent of Holy Theft
I walked down the broad oak stairs in silence, listening to the metallic clatter of bolt cutters against the iron perimeter fence.
Clara had not even bothered to knock on the front door before ordering her holy crew to destroy the exterior security gate.
Two burly men from the deacon board, both dressed in Sunday suits with their ties tucked into their windbreakers, severed the chain with a sharp snap.
"Praise Jesus, the way is cleared for the righteous!" Clara cheered through her megaphone, clapping her gloved hands with theatrical ecstasy.
The flock surged forward like vultures smelling fresh carrion, carrying packing tape, black markers, and empty crates.
They were not coming to visit; they were coming to empty every room down to the bare baseboards while the neighborhood slept.
I pulled open the eight-foot front door made of solid mountain timber and stepped out onto the wide stone porch.
The mountain wind whipped across the porch, carrying the unmistakable scent of damp cedar, diesel exhaust, and cheap floral perfume.
Clara halted at the bottom of the porch steps, flanked by Pastor Luke, an elderly man with hollow eyes and a silver bible clutched against his ribs.
"Good morning, Riley," my mother said, her voice dropping into that sweet, poisonous register she reserved for public audiences.
"We came to help you transition into a more modest lifestyle, just as we discussed before your grandfather passed."
"We never discussed anything, Clara," I said coldly, deliberately omitting the word mother.
A collective gasp rippled through the women behind her, several of them clutching their pearls and shaking their heads in theatrical disgust.
"Do you hear the disrespect, Pastor?" Clara sighed, dabbing an imaginary tear from her dry cheek.
"Even after everything I suffered raising her as a godly widow, she treats her own mother like a stranger on holy ground."
"Daughter, pride goeth before destruction," Pastor Luke intoned, stepping forward with his bible raised like a shield.
"Your mother holds the legal authority from the Vance estate, and we are here to consecrate this lake house for the church youth retreat."
"Show me the deed, Pastor," I replied evenly, resting my hand on the porch railing without flinching.
Clara’s lips twitched with irritation, the serene mask slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal the predator beneath.
She reached into her designer leather handbag and whipped out a folded legal document with a golden county seal glued to the corner.
"Here is the certified probate decree signed by Judge Hollings, you ungrateful little wretch," she hissed under her breath so only the front row could hear.
"The house belongs to the surviving Vance matriarch, which means you have thirty minutes to take your clothes and vanish into the woods."
She turned to the moving crew waiting beside the open truck ramp and waved her hand with absolute authority.
"Start with the living room furniture, boys, especially the antique roll-top desk and the bronze statues Arthur loved so much!"
May you like
Four men immediately stepped toward my front door, ignoring my presence as if I were a ghost already buried beneath the lake.
"Take one more step onto this porch," I warned, my voice cutting through their hymns like a razor through silk, "and every one of you will be booked for felony home invasion."
