Chapter 5 - Packing Up the Mirage
Gwen didn't speed on her drive back to the Glendale house. She drove the speed limit, listening to the quiet hum of her tires against the pavement, feeling an astonishing, unfamiliar lightness in her chest. For eight years, she had carried an invisible piano on her back; today, she had simply unstrapped the harness and watched it fall down the stairs.
The single-story Craftsman home on Monterey Road looked serene under the afternoon sun. It was a beautiful property—hardwood floors, built-in oak bookshelves, a flourishing lemon tree in the backyard.
Brandon had told everyone at the country club that he had purchased it for Gwen as a wedding gift.
In reality, the house had belonged to Gwen’s grandmother. Gwen had inherited it free and clear when she was twenty-four. Brandon’s name was nowhere on the deed. When they married, Brandon had insisted on “managing” the property taxes, which usually meant Gwen paying them while Brandon took the tax deductions.
Gwen parked in the driveway, walked inside, and immediately called two people.
The first was a locksmith.
“Can you be here within forty-five minutes?” Gwen asked. “I need every exterior deadbolt replaced and new codes for the garage keypad.”
“I’m in Burbank right now, ma’am. I can be there in thirty,” the locksmith replied.
The second call was to a woman named Diane Sterling. Diane was not related to Brandon’s managing partner, but she was widely known across Los Angeles County as the most ruthless, meticulous forensic divorce attorney in the state. Gwen had booked a confidential consultation with her three weeks ago, sensing that the breaking point was coming.
“Diane? It’s Gwen Vance,” she said, walking into Brandon’s walk-in closet.
“Did it happen?” Diane asked, her tone razor-sharp.
“Exactly as we expected,” Gwen said, pulling two oversized rolling suitcases from the top shelf. “He gave me two hundred dollars. He shouted in front of witnesses that my money was his money, Arthur Vance was in the room, and he threatened me. Arthur suspended him on the spot and announced an internal audit.”
Diane let out a low whistle over the line. “Well. That accelerates things considerably. Do you have the green binder?”
“Right here on the bed.”
“Bring it to my office tomorrow morning at nine. In the meantime, change the locks, pack his belongings, and do not let him sleep under that roof tonight. In California, if you allow him back in after a domestic confrontation, it complicates the exclusive-use petition.”
“Understood.”
By two-thirty, Gwen had stripped the closet. Brandon’s tailored suits, his collection of unworn Italian loafers, his expensive watches that had mysteriously appeared on her credit card bills—she folded none of it. She stuffed everything into six heavy-duty contractor trash bags and dragged them onto the covered front porch.
The locksmith finished installing the heavy brass deadbolts at three-fifteen. He handed Gwen four brand-new keys. “All set, ma’am. Nobody’s getting through these without a battering ram.”
At four o’clock, Brandon’s silver BMW screeched into the driveway, leaving black tire marks on the asphalt.
He slammed his door so hard the glass rattled. His tie was loosened, his hair disheveled, his eyes wild with fury and desperation. He marched up the front steps, grabbed the brass handle of the front door, and jammed his key into the lock.
It didn't turn.
Brandon frowned, jiggling the key violently. “What the…?”
He looked down and saw the six black trash bags sitting beside his golf bag on the porch.
Through the front window’s sheer curtains, Gwen stood calmly, holding her mug of tea.
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Brandon hammered on the heavy oak door with both fists. “Gwen! Open this damn door right now! Open it!”
***
