“Oh, please don’t be dramatic. We just changed the code for security because of the party. You could have knocked.”
I looked directly at her.
“I don’t knock on my own front door.”
I opened the door and walked out into the winter night.
I spent that night at a comfortable hotel by the interstate.
The next morning, Christmas Eve, I drove into town and met with Martha, an old friend who ran a local property management company.
Martha poured me a cup of tea in her office. She listened quietly as I explained the situation, the unauthorized renovations, the drained bank account, the changed locks.
“You want to evict them?” Martha asked, pulling out a notepad.
“No.”
I took a sip of the hot tea.
“Evictions take time. They cause ugly, drawn-out fights. They thrive on drama. Martha, I am going to remove the ground they are standing on.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I want to sell the house immediately, as is.”
Martha raised an eyebrow.
“Catherine, you’ve lived there for 30 years.”
“And the memories are mine to keep, but the building itself has become a weapon they are using against me. I won’t allow it. It’s a seller’s market, isn’t it?”
“Very much so.”
She nodded.
“Inventory is incredibly low right now. If we list it aggressively, we could have cash offers by the end of the week.”
“Do it. I have the deed right here.”
I pulled the folder from my bag.
“I want the listing live by tomorrow morning. Put a sign in the yard at dawn.”
“They are going to lose their minds,” Martha noted, entirely unfazed.
“That is their prerogative.”
Before I left, Martha helped me secure a six-month lease on a beautiful, light-filled condo overlooking the river on the other side of town.
It was fully furnished, quiet, and required a security fob for entry.