Chapter 9 - The Clearing of the House
Four months later, summer had arrived in Evanston.
The green oak trees along Forest Avenue were thick with leaves, casting long, cool shadows across the sunlit sidewalks. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, lake breeze, and blooming hydrangeas.
A large white moving van was parked in front of my house.
Two young men were carrying out the last pieces of dark, heavy mahogany furniture—Derek’s desk, his leather armchair, his giant decorative mirrors—and loading them into the back of the truck to be auctioned off by the court liquidator to settle his remaining civil debts.
I stood on the front porch, wearing jeans, an old cotton shirt, and a pair of yellow gardening gloves.
The porch pillar where Derek had been arrested four months ago had been freshly painted white. The dark walnut stain on the steps shone under the afternoon sun.
My phone rang in my pocket.
It was Evelyn.
"Laura," her voice came through warm and light. "Just calling to confirm the final probate filings. The state's attorney accepted Derek’s plea deal this morning. Three years’ probation, full financial restitution, and permanent surrender of his architectural license. He’s currently working as a draftsman for an industrial farm equipment manufacturer in southern Indiana."
"And Christine?" I asked, leaning against the porch railing.
"Eighteen months at a minimum-security federal facility in West Virginia," Evelyn replied. "Marcus Vance got four years. The Bar Association stripped his license permanently."
I looked out at the quiet street, watching a young family ride their bicycles past my driveway. The throb behind my right eye—the migraine that had plagued me for three years—had never returned. Not once.
"Thank you, Evelyn," I said quietly. "For everything."
"Don't thank me, Laura," Evelyn laughed softly. "You wrote the script. I just filed the motions. Enjoy your house."
I hung up the phone and walked back inside.
The house was empty now. All the dark, heavy, pretentious furniture Derek had insisted on buying was gone. The rooms were filled with sunlight, white walls, and broad, open spaces waiting for something new.
I walked through the kitchen, out the side door, and into the backyard garden.
May you like
The flower beds I had planted years ago were blooming—red roses, purple lavender, and bright yellow marigolds reaching up toward the afternoon sky.
I knelt in the soft, warm dirt, pulled off my gloves, and touched the soil with my bare hands.
