Chapter 8 - THE PUBLIC AUCTIONZ
Sixty days later, the Carolina sun was bright and hot over Willow Creek Lane.
The long, paved driveway where I had parked my car for eleven years was crowded with luxury vehicles, real estate investors, and curious neighbors from the subdivision. A massive yellow sign stood on the front lawn, reading: FORECLOSURE AUCTION - PUBLIC SALE BY ORDER OF WAKE COUNTY SUPERIOR COURT.
I stood on the back patio, wearing a simple white linen dress and dark sunglasses, holding a glass of iced tea. Hian stood beside me, leaning against the stone balustrade I had designed myself seven years ago.
"The bank valuation came in at 1.8 million," Hian said, checking his tablet. "With the liens and back taxes cleared by the court settlement, the minimum opening bid is eight hundred thousand."
"It's a beautiful house," I said quietly, looking up at the broad gables and the custom floor-to-ceiling windows. "I put a lot of my soul into this place."
"Are you sad to see it go?" Hian asked gently.
"No," I replied. "A house is just stone and wood, Hian. It becomes a home depending on who lives inside it. This place was a cage."
Down on the front lawn, the auctioneer’s rhythmic, rapid-fire chant began to ring out through the speakers.
"Eight hundred thousand to start! Do I hear eight-fifty? Eight-fifty to the gentleman in the blue jacket! Nine hundred! Nine hundred thousand!"
At the edge of the crowd, standing near the street curb, was a lone figure.
It was Grantham.
He was wearing an old, faded polo shirt and jeans—the same kind of practical clothes he used to wear when I first met him at that coffee shop twelve years ago. He looked hollow, aged by ten years in two months. His car had been repossessed, his architecture license was currently under review by the state board, and he was living in a small, rented one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of town.
Beside him stood Willamina and Finanella. Their designer bags and posture were gone. They stood on the public sidewalk, unable to step onto the property because of the restraining orders, watching as everything they had built off my family’s back was liquidated before their eyes.
"One point two million!" the auctioneer shouted. "Going once... going twice..."
I raised my hand slightly from the patio deck.
Harrison Vance, standing near the auctioneer’s podium, held up his paddle. "One point five million dollars. Cash offer from the Callaway Family Trust."
The crowd gasped and murmured. The auctioneer paused, scanning the crowd for any higher bids, but no one moved.
"One point five million dollars to the Callaway Trust!" the auctioneer yelled, slamming his gavel down onto the wooden block. BANG. "SOLD!"
Grantham flinched at the sound of the gavel as if he had been shot. He looked up at the back patio, his eyes locking onto me across the long, green lawn.
May you like
I didn't smile. I didn't gloat. I simply lifted my iced tea glass in a silent, final toast to the ghost of our past, then turned around and walked inside.
I had bought the house back for cash. And tomorrow morning, the demolition crew would arrive to tear it down to the ground, clearing the land for a new community park dedicated to children's art education.
