Chapter 3 - The Siege of Newport
By nightfall, the mansion was empty of its parasites, but the damage they had left behind was sickening. I spent the evening with my parents at a quiet boutique hotel downtown, ensuring they were fed, warm, and secure. But my mind was back at the house.
The next morning, I returned with a commercial forensic cleaning crew and a security team. Craig hadn't just lived there; he had occupied it like a vandal. The pristine hardwood floors were scuffed from muddy boots, the walls of the guest bedrooms were marred with stains, and the master bedroom—the room I had specifically designed for my mother’s comfort—had been ransacked. They had gone through my parents' personal lockbox, looking for titles, deeds, and financial statements.
"They wanted to find the actual deed," I told my attorney, Marcus, over a speakerphone call as I surveyed the wreckage. "They thought if they could force or trick my dad into signing a quitclaim deed or a power of attorney, they could seize the property."
"It’s classic elder financial exploitation, Ethan," Marcus replied from his office in Boston. "But since the property is owned by the trust, any document your father signed would be legally worthless anyway. However, Craig wasn't lying about the civil court delay. He filed a emergency petition this morning claiming 'wrongful lockout' and demanding an injunction to restore his access to the property, claiming he is an equitable co-owner due to verbal promises made by your parents."
I leaned against the kitchen counter, looking out at the gray Atlantic waves. "A verbal promise? My dad can barely remember his medication schedule some days, and they used that against him. How long until the judge throws his petition out?"
"Three to four weeks minimum," Marcus sighed. "Until then, if he tries to force his way back onto the property with a locksmith, the police might actually let him in to maintain the status quo until the hearing. It's a gray area."
"Then I won't leave it in a gray area," I said, my voice hardening. "Marcus, I want a full financial audit on Craig’s construction business. He’s been bragging about his luxury truck and his expensive vacations, but Vanessa is always asking our parents for money. I want to know where his cash is coming from."
"I'll have a private investigator on it by noon," Marcus promised.
I hung up, walked out onto the wraparound porch, and looked down the long stone driveway. I knew Craig wouldn't wait for the court date. He was desperate, angry, and humiliated. A man like that doesn't accept a quiet defeat; he tries to tear down the house out of spite.
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Two hours later, my security cameras caught a familiar black pickup truck idling at the end of the road, just outside the electronic iron gates. Craig was sitting inside, staring up at the mansion through the windshield. He didn't try to enter. He just watched.
The war had moved from the foyer to the shadows, and I was entirely prepared to burn his world to the ground to protect what was mine.
