Chapter 6 - Retaliation in the Daylight
The audacity took the breath right out of my lungs.
"Mentally incompetent?" I stared at the paper. "On what grounds?"
"Your medical records from five years ago, after your father died," Vance said coldly. "You were prescribed mild anti-anxiety medication and took a six-month leave of absence from your architecture firm. Eleanor, your loving mother, provided Sterling’s attorneys with your private prescription history this morning."
I felt a cold rage settle into my bones, freezing out the lingering self-doubt. My mother had handed my personal grief to a predator to be weaponized against me so her golden son wouldn't face bankruptcy.
"Judge Harrison is presiding over the emergency docket today," Vance said, checking his pocket watch. "Harrison is an old country judge, fair but rigid. If Sterling’s team creates enough doubt about your capacity, Harrison might grant a temporary sixty-day conservatorship to maintain the 'status quo.' And sixty days is all Sterling needs to bulldoze the dunes under an emergency erosion permit."
"Then we go to the courthouse right now," I said, standing up.
"Not yet," Vance said, holding up a finger. "First, we must establish physical dominion. Under state land title laws, if Jackson takes physical possession of the main residence before the conservatorship hearing at two o'clock, the law presumes he has tenancy rights. Have you been to the house this morning?"
A chill ran down my spine. "No. I left my truck there yesterday before the wedding."
Vance stood immediately, grabbing his coat. "Let’s move."
We drove north along Route 1, the Atlantic crashing against the jagged cliffs to our right. The Cape Haven estate occupied an isolated promontory at the end of a long, unpaved driveway lined with ancient, wind-bent cypress trees.
As Vance’s Mercedes cleared the final bend, my stomach dropped.
Two black heavy-duty pickup trucks were parked across the driveway, blocking the entrance to the stone gate. A yellow private security van was parked near the front porch. Men in high-visibility vests were already unloading iron stakes and orange construction fencing around the front lawn.
And standing on the wide cedar porch, holding a crowbar in one hand and a can of beer in the other, was my brother Jackson.
He wasn't wearing his wedding tuxedo anymore. He was in work boots and a grease-stained jacket, looking like a man who hadn't slept a wink. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and frantic.
Next to him was Richard Sterling himself—a squat, silver-haired man in a tailored camelhair coat, speaking sharply into a cell phone while pointing at the roofline of Grandpa’s house.
"They're changing the locks," Vance muttered, his jaw setting hard. "Stay in the car, Carter."
"No," I said, kicking my door open before Vance could stop me. "I spent five years walking on eggshells so I wouldn't upset my family. That ended last night."
I marched straight toward the stone gate. The two men in safety vests stepped into my path, broad-shouldered hired security guards with badges pinned to their vests.
"Private property, buddy," one of them grunted, putting a hand out toward my chest. "Nobody past this point."
"Take your hand off me," I said, my voice dead and cold. "I am Carter Ward. This is my property. You are trespassing on land deeded under sovereign maritime patent."
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Jackson heard my voice and snapped his head around. A twisted, triumphant grin spread across his face as he walked to the edge of the porch, brandishing the crowbar like a trophy.
"Well, look who finally showed up!" Jackson shouted down the driveway. "The generous little brother! Come to bring me the keys, Carter? Or did you come to watch them haul your drawing boards out to the dump?"
