Chapter 2 - The Screaming Phone
Keaton practically fell down the porch steps, his mug slipping from his fingers and shattering against the flagstone walkway. The dark coffee splashed across my white-painted railing.
"Hey! What are you doing?!" Keaton screamed at the tow truck driver, who was already stepping out of his cab with a heavy winch cable in hand. "That's my truck! Get the hell away from it!"
"Vehicle is being impounded for private property trespassing at the owner's request," the driver said calmly, pointing his thumb toward me. "Take it up with her."
"Arden! Are you insane?!" Keaton whirled on me, his face turning red, veins bulging along his neck. "Tell him to stop! I’m your brother!"
"You're a trespasser," I said, standing on the top porch step with my arms crossed over my scrubs. "You took a key you weren't given, unlocked a house you don't pay for, broke my property, and brought uninvited guests onto my land. You have two minutes to grab your clothes and get out before I call the county sheriff."
From inside the house, his two hungover friends stumbled out onto the porch, looking wide-eyed and terrified as they took in the scene.
"Yo, Keaton, what's going on?" one of them stammered, holding an empty beer bottle. "Is this a bust?"
"Get your stuff! We’re leaving!" Keaton snarled at them, before turning back to me, shaking his finger in my face. "Mom and Dad are going to destroy you for this, Arden! Do you have any idea how much riding on this weekend for Ethan? Dad promised his boss the master suite!"
"Dad promised something that wasn't his," I replied. "Which seems to be a family tradition."
The Vanguard locksmith van pulled up right behind the tow truck. Two technicians jumped out, carrying heavy toolboxes and power drills.
Within twenty minutes, the sound of screwdrivers and whirring power drills echoed through the peaceful morning air. The locksmiths stripped every lock off my doors. They installed heavy matte-black deadbolts with encrypted digital keypads. They re-keyed the garage doors, replaced the sliding glass door latches with steel reinforcing bars, and handed me two primary master fobs.
By 9:15 a.m., Keaton’s truck was hooked up to the flatbed, lifted into the air, and hauled down the driveway, leaving his two friends to walk down the country road carrying their duffel bags in embarrassment.
Keaton didn't leave on foot. He sat in his truck as it was towed away, screaming into his cell phone.
I walked through my house alone.
The living room was a mess. Empty beer cans sat on my hand-carved mahogany coffee table—leaving water rings on the wood. The sofa cushions were tossed on the floor. In the kitchen, my refrigerator—which I had spent two hundred dollars stocking with my own groceries the week before—had been cleared out. My steaks were gone. My imported cheeses were gone. A sticky puddle of spilled orange juice had dried on the bottom shelf.
In the master bedroom—the room Aunt Liora had claimed for fresh flowers—someone had slept in my bed without making it, leaving muddy shoe tracks across my hand-woven cream rug.
I didn't cry. The exhaustion from my shift had vanished, replaced by a cold, surgical clarity.
I grabbed a pair of rubber gloves, a bucket of bleach, and trash bags. I stripped my bedding and tossed it straight into the trash can outside—I wasn't going to sleep in sheets strangers had used. I scrubbed the floors, sanitized every counter, and wiped down the wood.
At 10:30 a.m., my phone began to ring.
The screen read: DAD.
I didn't answer. I set the phone on the clean kitchen counter, put it on speaker, and continued wiping down the stove.
The call went to voicemail. Ten seconds later, it rang again. Then again.
On the fifth call, I swiped the screen.
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO THE HOUSE?!" my father's voice exploded through the phone speaker, so loud and distorted that it vibrated the counter surface. "Keaton just called me from the tow lot in Mooresville! You towed your own brother’s truck?! Have you lost your mind, Arden?!"
I stood over the sink, rinsing my cloth. "Good morning, Dad."
"Don't you 'good morning' me!" Arthur Voss roared. "Ethan is on his way to Lake Norman right now with his regional manager and their wives! We spent four thousand dollars on catering and boat rentals for this weekend! Turn around right now, put the key back under the lighthouse, and apologize to your brother!"
"The key under the lighthouse is gone," I said, my voice steady, slow, and soft compared to his rage. "The locks have been changed. The alarm system is armed. If anyone steps onto my porch today, the security system will notify the Iredell County Sheriff's Department automatically."
A heavy silence fell over the line, followed by my father’s ragged breathing. He wasn't used to this. For thirty-six years, I had been the daughter who bowed her head, apologized for having an opinion, and paid for family dinners to keep the peace.
"Arden," his tone shifted from pure rage to a low, dangerous growl. "You listen to me very carefully. That lake house would not exist without this family. We raised you. We put clothes on your back. You owe everything you have to the foundation your mother and I built for you."
"I paid for my college degree with student loans that I paid off myself," I said. "I bought this house with my own money, earned during eighty-hour work weeks while you were busy buying Ethan his first three failed businesses. You didn't buy a single brick here, Dad."
"You are an ungrateful, selfish bitch!" he spat. "Your mother is crying in the kitchen! You are ruining your brother's future!"
"Then Ethan should have rented a house," I said.
"We are coming down there," Dad threatened. "We have twenty people in five cars. We are going to use that house, Arden. Try and stop us."
"I won't try, Dad," I said smoothly. "I'll just let the police handle it."
May you like
I hung up before he could respond.
I took a sip of fresh, cold water, walked to the front porch, and pulled out my laptop. It was time to show my family what happens when you push a tired nurse too far.
