I grabbed my coat. I wasn’t going to stay in the apartment. I needed to see this. I drove to my old neighborhood and parked three houses down, hidden in the shadows of a large oak tree. I watched the street. It was quiet. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and black. The house—my house—was dark. I had remotely cut the power via the smart home app five minutes ago.
Headlights swept across the street. A car pulled into the driveway. It was them. The show was about to begin.
The scene unfolded with cinematic perfection. Greg’s car door opened and he stumbled out, still in his tuxedo, looking a little unsteady. He went around to open the door for Brenda. She emerged, her white dress trailing on the wet driveway, holding her stomach theatrically. They walked up the path to the front porch. I rolled down my window just an inch to hear.
“Why are the lights off?” Brenda complained, her voice shrill in the night air. “I told you to leave the porch light on.”
“I did,” Greg slurred slightly. “Bulb probably burned out. Relax, babe. We’re home.”
He fumbled in his pocket for the keys. The keys I had given him. The old keys. He slid the key into the lock. He turned it. Nothing happened. He jiggled it. He pulled it out, wiped it on his pants, and tried again. He shoved his shoulder against the door. It didn’t budge.
“What is wrong with you?” Brenda snapped. “Open the door! I have to pee.”
“It’s stuck,” Greg grunted. “Must be the humidity. Hang on.” He tried again, twisting harder. Snap. The key broke off in the lock. “Dammit!” Greg yelled, kicking the door.
That’s when the motion sensor floodlights I had reactivated remotely suddenly blazed to life, bathing them in blinding white light. And that’s when they saw it. The bright orange piece of paper taped right at eye level: NOTICE OF EVICTION AND CRIMINAL TRESPASS WARNING.
Greg ripped it off the door, squinting to read it.
“What is this?” Brenda asked, leaning over his shoulder.
“It says… it says we are trespassing,” Greg stammered. “Fifth Anderson Holdings LLC… Valerie!” He roared my name. “Valerie!”
He turned around, scanning the darkness, looking for a fight. “I know you’re doing this! This is my house! You can’t lock me out!”
He picked up a decorative rock from the garden and marched toward the living room window. Don’t do it, Greg, I whispered to myself.
Before he could throw it, the unmarked sedan across the street flashed red and blue lights. Two uniformed off-duty officers—hired security with arrest powers—stepped out.
“Drop the rock, sir!” one of them commanded, hand on his holster.
Greg froze. “Officers! Thank God. My ex-wife… she locked us out. This is my house. I have my pregnant wife here. You have to let us in.”
The officer walked up the driveway, calm and imposing. “Sir, step away from the door. Can I see some ID?”
Greg fumbled for his wallet. “I live here. 42 Maple Street. Check your records.”
The officer looked at the ID, then at the clipboard he was holding. “I have a deed here listing the owner as Fifth Anderson Holdings LLC, and I have a signed court order dated yesterday stating that Mr. Gregory Anderson agreed to vacate the premises immediately upon divorce.”
“That was a formality!” Greg shouted, spit flying. “We had a verbal agreement! She gave it to me!”
“Verbal doesn’t trump a court order, sir,” the officer said. “And since you are no longer a resident, and you just attempted to break a window, you are currently trespassing. You need to leave.”
“Leave?” Brenda shrieked. “Leave where? We live here! All our stuff is inside. My baby’s crib is inside!”
“Your personal property has been packed and moved to a storage facility,” the officer recited. “Here is the address and the key to the unit.” He handed Greg a small brass key.
“You packed my stuff?” Brenda looked horrified. “You touched my underwear? You… This is illegal! I’m calling my dad!”
“You can call whoever you want,” the officer said. “But you cannot stay here. If you don’t get in your car and leave in the next three minutes, I will arrest you for trespassing and attempted vandalism.”
Greg looked at the house. He looked at the orange sticker. He looked at the broken key in his hand. The reality was finally piercing through the alcohol and the arrogance. He didn’t own anything. He was a guest who had overstayed his welcome.
“Valerie!” he screamed into the night again, looking right at the oak tree where I was hiding, though he couldn’t see me. “You bitch! You planned this! You let us plan the wedding knowing you were going to do this!”
I smiled. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“Sir, last warning,” the officer said, stepping closer. “In the car. Now.”
Brenda started sobbing. It was a loud, ugly wail. “My wedding night! You ruined my wedding night!”
Greg shoved her toward the car. “Shut up, Brenda. Just get in the car.”
“Don’t push me!” she screamed back. “This is your fault! You said you handled it! You said she was stupid! She tricked me!”
They were screaming at each other as they scrambled back into my dad’s sedan. Greg slammed the door, peeled out of the driveway, and sped off, the tires screeching on the wet asphalt. The officers watched them go, then turned off their lights and returned to their post.
Silence descended on Maple Street. I leaned back in my seat, my heart racing, but my soul singing. They were homeless on their wedding night. But I wasn’t done. The house was just the shelter. Now I had to take the food.
The next phase of my plan relied on the fact that Greg and Brenda were creatures of habit and entitlement. I knew exactly where they would go. There was only one luxury hotel in town that they considered worthy of them: the Fairmont. I drove there, keeping a safe distance. Sure enough, my dad’s car was pulled up to the valet. Greg was storming into the lobby, Brenda trailing behind, her white dress now streaked with mud from the driveway tantrum.
I parked and walked into the lobby, staying near a large potted palm where I could see the check-in desk. Greg slammed his hand on the marble counter. “I need a suite. The presidential if you have it. My house… we had a plumbing emergency.”
Lying to the end.
The receptionist typed away. “Certainly, sir. We have a suite available that will be eight hundred and fifty dollars a night plus tax. May I have a credit card for incidentals?”
Greg pulled out his black AmEx, the one that used to be attached to my corporate perks—the one I had cancelled at 9:01 a.m. that morning. He swiped it. The receptionist frowned.
“I’m sorry, sir. This card has been declined.”
“Try it again,” Greg snapped. “It’s an AmEx Platinum. It doesn’t have a limit.”
“It’s coming up as ‘Card Canceled/Stolen,’” she said, her voice dropping a polite decibel.
“Stolen?” Greg turned red. “That bitch… Here, try the Visa.”
He handed over the joint Visa. Declined. Greg started sweating. He patted his pockets. He pulled out a debit card, his personal one. The one linked to the account where he kept his “consulting” money. “This one works,” he said confidently.
The receptionist swiped. She waited. She looked up, pity in her eyes. “Sir, it says insufficient funds.”
“What?” Greg yelled. “There was five thousand dollars in there yesterday!”
There was. But remember the gambling debt, the one I had stopped paying? The casino had a lien. The moment the joint protection was lifted by the divorce decree, the creditors swooped in and garnished his personal account. Diane had tipped them off.
Brenda stepped up, wiping her mascara-stained eyes. “Just use my card, Greg. God.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a card. It was a supplementary card on my account.
“Ma’am, this card is also invalid,” the receptionist said.
The silence in the lobby was deafening. People were staring. The bride in the muddy dress and the groom with no money.
“We… we have cash,” Greg stammered. He opened his wallet. He had maybe forty dollars. Not enough for a Motel 6, let alone the Fairmont.
“I need to make a call,” Greg said, his voice trembling. He pulled out his phone. He dialed my number. I watched my phone light up in my purse. I let it ring. He dialed my parents.
