Chapter 4 - The House of Fools
At 1424 Crestview Lane, the scene was entirely different.
The smell of cedar and coffee that had defined Arthur Vance’s home for four decades had been completely obliterated by the stench of cheap champagne, expensive cigar smoke, and Gloria’s cloying perfume.
In the driveway, parked crookedly over the freshly shoveled snow, sat a brand-new, acid-green Porsche 911 GT3 with temporary dealer tags.
Darren Miller stood in the open-concept living room wearing a designer silk shirt unbuttoned to his chest, admiring his reflection in the gilded mirror above the fireplace. On his wrist gleamed a heavy gold Rolex.
"I told you, Mom," Darren laughed, tossing his car keys onto the antique dining table his stepfather had hand-carved twenty years ago. "The old man is finished. He doesn't have the guts to fight back. He’s probably freezing in some church shelter right now, crying into a bowl of lukewarm soup."
Gloria sat on the sofa, her feet propped up on Arthur’s favorite leather ottoman. She was holding a flute of Dom Pérignon, admiring the two-carat diamond ring glittering on her right hand.
"He was always weak," Gloria said dismissively, flicking an ash from her slim cigarette onto the hardwood floor. "Forty years at an engineering firm, and what did he do with it? Lived like an accountant. Kept the same furniture. Refused to buy a house in Palm Beach. If I hadn't stepped in, that broke daughter of his would have inherited everything."
"Speaking of Claire," Darren sneered, taking a gulp from his champagne glass. "Did you see her face yesterday? Standing there in that cheap wool coat, looking like a drowned rat. She looked at me like she wanted to kill me."
"Let her look," Gloria chuckled coldly. "What is she going to do? Sue us? With what money? She’s an office girl at some bookkeeping firm. She can't afford a retainer for a real lawyer. By the time legal aid looks at Arthur's file, all the liquid cash will be tucked away in Darren's crypto accounts."
"Speaking of which," Darren said, pulling out his phone. "We’re throwing the party tonight. I invited twenty people from the club. Everyone needs to know the Millers are running Crestview now."
"Just make sure the caterers use the good china," Gloria instructed. "The ones Arthur’s first wife brought from Europe. We might as well use them before we sell this place in the spring."
Darren pulled up his banking app to check his balance. He wanted to transfer another $20,000 into his checking account to cover the cost of the imported caviar and the private DJ he had hired for the evening.
He tapped the screen.
A red banner appeared at the top of the interface:
*ERROR 403: ACCOUNT TEMPORARILY RESTRICTED. CONTACT COMPLIANCE.*
Darren frowned, tapping the screen again aggressively. "What the hell?"
"What is it, Darren?" Gloria asked, adjusting her robe.
"My First Commercial checking app is glitching," Darren muttered. "It won't let me transfer the funds to the debit card."
"It’s probably just a daily limit on the new corporate account," Gloria said waving her hand dismissively. "Use the platinum credit card we took from Arthur’s desk drawer."
"Yeah, whatever," Darren said, slipping the platinum card into his designer wallet. "I'm going to take the Porsche out to pick up the liquor orders."
He grabbed his leather jacket and strutted out the front door, feeling like the king of the world.
He walked down the icy steps, unlocked the Porsche with a double-click of the key fob, and opened the driver’s door.
Before he could sit down, a dark black SUV pulled up silently behind his car, blocking the driveway entirely.
Darren bristled, his face twisting into an arrogant scowl. "Hey! Idiot! You're blocking my driveway! Move that piece of junk before I have it towed!"
The driver's door of the SUV opened. A tall, immaculate man in a charcoal wool overcoat stepped out. Behind him, two men in dark suits carrying leather briefcases also emerged.
The man in the charcoal coat was Marcus Vance.
Darren squinted. "Who the hell are you?"
Marcus didn't answer Darren’s question. He simply glanced at the green Porsche, then looked at the clipboard in his hand.
"Darren Miller?" Marcus asked in a voice as dry as parchment.
"Yeah. Who’s asking?"
"My name is Marcus Vance. I am the general counsel representing Arthur J. Vance and Claire Vance, court-appointed receiver and conservator of the Vance Estate."
Darren burst out laughing. "A lawyer? Already? Tell the old man he signed a quitclaim deed! The house belongs to Vance Heritage Holdings! Now get off my property before I call the cops for trespassing!"
Marcus smiled—a thin, predator's grin that made Darren’s stomach suddenly drop.
"You won't need to call the police, Mr. Miller," Marcus said softly, gesturing toward the street. "They are already here."
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Around the corner, two marked county sheriff cruisers pulled up, their flashing blue and red emergency lights painting the snow-covered street in garish shades of neon.
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