Chapter 3 - THE AFTERMATH AND THE ALLY
Z
The dust didn't settle; it just shifted. Over the next forty-eight hours, my phone became a battleground of missed calls, furious text messages, and defensive voicemails from Glenn’s family members who had heard heavily distorted versions of what happened on the porch. Aunt Sarah was the only exception; she sent a brief, supportive text message telling me to change the locks immediately and offering to come over if I needed backup.
I took her advice before the sun even finished setting on the night of the aborted engagement party. I called a local locksmith, replaced every exterior deadbolt, and moved Grandpa’s handmade porch chair out of the dusty corner of the garage and right back to its rightful spot by the front door.
Sitting in that chair with a cup of black coffee on the third morning after the confrontation, I watched the morning mist lift off the surface of the lake. The quiet was absolute, broken only by the occasional cry of a blue heron near the reeds. It was the kind of peace Glenn had never understood—a stillness that didn't need to be monetized, renovated, or flipped for a profit.
My phone buzzed on the rustic wooden side table. I glanced at the screen, expecting another barrage of abuse from an unknown number or a burner phone Glenn had picked up.
Instead, the caller ID read: Elliot.
Glenn’s best friend. The same Elliot whose voice had echoed through the kitchen speaker weeks ago, detailing the exact blueprint of Glenn’s calculated scheme to steal my inheritance.
My thumb hovered over the decline button. My first instinct was pure revulsion. Elliot had been right there on the call, passively listening or encouraging Glenn’s predatory plan, even if he had offered a mild word of caution about whether I was stupid or not. He was an accomplice to emotional fraud.
And yet, curiosity—and a cold tactical instinct—won out. I swiped to answer, bringing the phone up to my ear without saying a word.
“Lucy?” Elliot’s voice came through, sounding strained, tired, and uncharacteristically nervous. “Look, don’t hang up. I know you have every right in the world to hate my guts, and honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you told me to go straight to hell.”
“You’ve got about thirty seconds before I block your number permanently, Elliot,” I said, my voice flat and devoid of any warmth. “Choose your next sentence very carefully.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Fair enough. Completely fair. I’m calling because… well, because Glenn has completely lost his mind. He’s been crashing at my place for the last two days, and he’s not just angry—he’s plotting. He’s talking to a real estate lawyer this morning.”
My grip on the phone tightened, though my heart rate didn't spike. I had anticipated this. A man like Glenn couldn't handle rejection, and he certainly couldn't handle losing a half-million-dollar asset that he had already mentally spent in his head.
“A lawyer?” I asked calmly. “On what grounds? The house was deeded to me before we were ever engaged, and even during the brief window of the engagement, it remained strictly in my name. Any first-year law student knows he has no legal claim to it.”
“That’s the thing, Lucy,” Elliot replied, lowering his voice as if he were afraid Glenn might overhear from another room in his apartment. “He’s not trying to sue you for the deed directly. He’s talking about filing a lawsuit for reimbursement of 'improvements and financial contributions' he claims he made to the property over the years, plus emotional damages for public humiliation and breach of promise.”
I let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Financial contributions? Glenn hasn't spent a single dime on this property. Grandpa paid for everything when he built it, and I’ve handled the property taxes since I got my first promotion five years ago. What contributions is he talking about? The six-pack of beer he brought over last summer?”
“He’s fabricating receipts, Luce,” Elliot said, the confession tumbling out in a rush of anxiety and guilt. “He’s going through old bank statements, trying to tie grocery bills, gas receipts, and shared dinners from the last five years into alleged 'home maintenance and investment costs' for the lake house. He’s trying to build a paper trail to sue you for a settlement just to force you into a corner where you have to buy him off.”
The audacity of it took my breath away for a split second. Eleven years of emotional neglect, financial penny-pinching where every dinner bill was meticulously split down the cent, and now he was trying to construct a fraudulent ledger to rob me of my grandfather’s legacy.
“Why are you telling me this, Elliot?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “You were his partner-in-crime on that phone call. Why turn on him now?”
A heavy sigh drifted across the line. “Because I listened to that rant he went on after he came back from your house two nights ago, Lucy. He wasn't just mad about the house anymore. He was talking about destroying you. He said if he couldn't have the property, he was going to make sure your professional reputation took a hit, too—he knows some people at your firm through his brother. That’s crossing a line I’m not willing to co-sign. I have a career, and I have a conscience, even if I was an idiot for letting Glenn run his mouth without checking him sooner.”
I processed his words, weighing the risk and the utility of the information. Elliot was a coward, but fear of being dragged down with a sinking ship was a powerful motivator.
“If you’re telling the truth, Elliot, you can prove it,” I said.
“How?”
“By sending me every text message, every email, and any notes you have of his plans. And if it comes down to it, by signing an affidavit stating that he explicitly stated his intention to manipulate me into signing the deed over to him.”
Silence stretched on the line for a long, tense moment. Then, softly: “Done. Check your email in ten minutes. I downloaded our chat history and recorded voice notes where he brags about the whole scheme. Good luck, Lucy. You’re going to need it.”
The line went dead.
Ten minutes later, my laptop pinged. An encrypted file from Elliot landed in my inbox, containing months of digital proof detailing Glenn’s predatory calculations. I opened the first audio file, listening to Glenn’s voice boast about how easy it was to manipulate me.
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This time, my chest didn't ache. My hands didn't shake. I simply forwarded the entire folder to a brilliant corporate and civil litigation attorney whose office was located thirty miles down the highway.
Glenn wanted a war? I was ready to give him a massacre.
