Chapter 10
Word travels fast in a quiet suburban neighborhood where every house looks remarkably similar and every lawn is meticulously manicured. By noon on the second day, three different neighbors had walked past the open front door, slowing their pace to peer inside with a mixture of morbid curiosity and thinly veiled judgment. Mrs. Higgins, a formidable woman of seventy with hair the color of spun silver and a pair of heavy gardening shears clutched in her right hand, marched right up the front steps without knocking, pausing only when she saw Eleanor standing in the entryway with a clipboard in hand.
"Eleanor Vance," Mrs. Higgins announced, her voice carrying the unmistakable authority of a woman who had run the local homeowners association for eighteen consecutive years. "What on earth is going on here? We heard the sheriff's car out front yesterday morning, and now the front door is stripped of its boards and there are moving boxes stacked in the driveway. Has the Miller estate finally gone under?"
Julian emerged from the den, carrying a stack of old accounting ledgers, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the formidable neighbor blocking the doorway. He looked instinctively at Eleanor, wondering how she would handle an interrogation she had undoubtedly endured in various forms for years.
Eleanor did not flinch. She clipped a pen securely to her clipboard, adjusted her pearl earrings with practiced calm, and stepped forward to meet Mrs. Higgins at the threshold. "Good afternoon, Martha. The Miller estate has completed its legal transfer in accordance with county debt liquidation statutes. Mr. Miller's son is currently sorting his personal effects."
Mrs. Higgins cast a sharp, disapproving glare past Eleanor toward Julian, taking in his worn jeans and gray t-shirt with a sniff of disdain. "Well, it's about time. That family has been an eyesore on this street for five years. Lawns overgrown, hedges out of compliance, and Lord knows what kind of financial recklessness was going on behind closed doors. I always said Arthur Miller was living beyond his means. Buying a brand-new luxury sedan every three years while the rest of us maintained standard household budgets."
Julian felt a hot surge of defensive anger rise in his chest. He took a step forward, opening his mouth to deliver a sharp retort, but a hand gently touched his forearm. It was Eleanor. Her touch was light, but her grip was firm, grounding him instantly. She did not look back at him as she addressed the neighbor.
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"Martha," Eleanor said, her voice dropping into a register that brook no argument, "Mr. Miller is currently executing his federally protected right to clear personal heirlooms from the property. The neighborhood association will be notified of the new occupancy timeline by Friday afternoon. Until then, I suggest you return to your hydrangeas."
Mrs. Higgins blinked in surprise, clearly unaccustomed to being dismissed so efficiently on her own turf. She pressed her lips into a thin line, gave one final, scathing look at Julian, and turned sharply on her heel. "Hmph. Well, I hope the new owners have better fiscal discipline," she muttered as she clacked down the steps.
