“You can’t do this!”
“Oh, we already did,” James replied calmly. “And she has plans.”
Michael’s voice rose. “Where’s my wife?!”
Eleanor stepped out of the car, composed as ever.
“She’s not your concern anymore.”
He stared at her, then at me, still in the back seat.
“You crazy old witch—”
Eleanor didn’t flinch.
She nodded to James. “Proceed.”
I’ll never forget the sound of the first crack as the hydraulic claw began tearing into the garage. Michael screamed, running toward it, arms flailing. Workers held him back as pieces of drywall and shattered glass hit the pavement.
Neighbors gathered in disbelief.
Some filmed.
Some whispered.
I sat still, watching the home that had held so many nights of silence, shouting, and cold beds come crashing down.
The house was never mine.
It had always been his.
Now, it was neither.
Michael begged, cursed, pleaded. But none of it mattered. Everything inside that house—his collectibles, his furniture, his pride—was gone within hours.
By noon, the structure was a pile of rubble.
By 2 PM, the land was cleared.
