Chapter 5
I called Marissa before I opened the door.
Then I called the police.
Foster kept ringing the bell.
Marguerite stood behind him in my driveway, wearing sunglasses and holding a clipboard like she had arrived to inspect property she owned.
Two movers climbed out of the truck.
My stomach turned.
She really thought she could move back in.
Even after the arrest.
Even after the deed.
Even after everything.
Marissa answered breathless.
“Claire?”
“Marguerite is here with movers.”
“Do not let them in.”
“I’m not.”
“Police?”
“Called.”
“Good. Put me on speaker.”
I opened the door but kept the chain latched.
Foster’s face appeared in the gap.
“Claire, listen to me.”
“No. Move away from the door.”
“Mom drained the account.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
He held up the statement.
“The twelve thousand. Then another eight from my personal savings. She said she needed an attorney. But I found transfers to a casino account.”
Marguerite shouted from the driveway.
“Don’t you dare discuss my finances with her.”
Foster turned.
“My finances, Mom.”
She pointed at the house.
“Get inside and pack what belongs to you.”
I looked at the moving truck.
“What exactly is happening here?”
Marguerite strode up the porch steps.
The chain was the only thing between us.
“This is still my son’s residence,” she said. “He is entitled to collect marital property.”
“With movers?”
“Furniture he helped use.”
I almost laughed.
“That is not how ownership works.”
She smiled coldly.
“You’ll learn how court works.”
Marissa’s voice came through my phone.
“Mrs. Whitmore, this is Marissa Lane, Claire’s attorney. Any attempt to enter the property without consent will be treated as trespassing.”
Marguerite’s eyes narrowed.
Foster looked ashamed.
“Claire,” he said, “I didn’t know she hired movers.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I confronted her about the money. She said if I didn’t retrieve my things today, you’d sell everything.”
Marguerite snapped, “Because she will.”
“No,” I said. “I packed his clothes. His documents. His tools. Things that are actually his. The couch my father paid for stays.”
Foster looked at me.
Pain crossed his face at the mention of my father.
Good.
Let him remember whose grief built the roof over him.
Police arrived before the movers touched anything.
Officer Ellis stepped onto the porch and recognized me.
Her expression hardened.
“Mrs. Whitmore, why are you here?”
Marguerite lifted her chin.
“To help my son retrieve belongings.”
“You have a no-contact condition related to an assault case.”
Marguerite’s mouth tightened.
“It says I cannot threaten her.”
Officer Ellis pulled out her tablet.
“It says you cannot come within one hundred feet of her residence.”
Foster turned to his mother.
“You said the order wasn’t active yet.”
Marguerite waved a hand.
“It’s a misunderstanding.”
Officer Ellis looked at the movers.
“Gentlemen, you need to leave.”
They did not argue.
Smart men.
The truck left empty.
Marguerite was arrested again.
This time, she did not shout.
She stared at Foster as Officer Ellis cuffed her.
“You chose her.”
Foster looked destroyed.
“No, Mom,” he said quietly. “You made me choose reality.”
She flinched.
The police car pulled away.
For a moment, Foster and I stood on opposite sides of the chained door.
He looked at the spare key in his hand.
Then passed it through the gap.
“I found it in Mom’s purse.”
I took it without touching his fingers.
“She made copies?”
“I don’t know.”
I changed the locks that afternoon.
Foster waited on the porch until the locksmith arrived, as if standing guard could undo betrayal.
It could not.
But when the locksmith left, Foster asked, “Can I have my boxes?”
I nodded.
I had packed them in the garage.
He loaded them into his car without complaint.
Before leaving, he turned to me.
“Tessa ended it.”
I said nothing.
“She said she believed lies because she wanted them to be true.”
“That sounds familiar.”
He winced.
“I deserved that.”
“Yes.”
He looked down.
“I’m sorry, Claire.”
The words were soft.
Too small.
Too late.
But for the first time, they sounded like they had weight.
“I know,” I said.
His eyes lifted.
That tiny hope irritated me.
“I still want the divorce.”
The hope died.
He nodded.
“I know.”
Two weeks later, we attended our first mediation.
Foster arrived with a lawyer who looked exhausted already.
Marguerite was not allowed to attend.
That helped.
The mediator asked if reconciliation was possible.
I said no.
Foster looked at the table.
Then said, “No.”
That surprised me.
The mediator went through assets.
House.
Mine.
Inheritance contribution.
Mine.
Mortgage payments.
Mostly mine.
Joint account.
Partially emptied by Marguerite.
Affair spending.
Documented.
Furniture.
Mostly purchased before marriage or from my separate funds.
Marissa was prepared.
Foster’s lawyer looked like he wanted to crawl under the table.
Then came the credit card debt.
My stomach dropped.
“What debt?”
Marissa went still.
Foster closed his eyes.
His lawyer slid over a statement.
Thirty-one thousand dollars.
Cards opened in both our names.
Charges I had never seen.
Jewelry.
Travel.
Restaurants.
Cash advances.
My hands went cold.
“Foster.”
He looked sick.
“I didn’t open that card.”
Marissa leaned forward.
“Then who did?”
Foster’s voice cracked.
“My mother handled some mail.”
The room went silent.
May you like
Marguerite had not just stolen money.
She had stolen my name.
