My elder sister ripped my work shirt open on the crowded deck of the Oakhaven Yacht Club right in front of six visiting Navy officers.
The Atlantic northeast storm hit Oakhaven Harbor with a vengeance. Temperatures plummeted, dropping below freezing. The wind howled through the gaps in the old workshop, making the entire structure creak and groan.
Inside my apartment above the shop, it was worse. The cold seeped into the bones of the building, turning my living space into an icebox. I huddled under layers of blankets, listening to the storm lash against the windows.
Then, at precisely midnight, the lights flickered once, then died. The old radiator in the corner, which had been struggling to keep up, fell silent. The hum of the small refrigerator ceased.
Total darkness. Total cold. Victoria’s latest move.
I fumbled for my emergency flashlight, its beam cutting a shaky path through the gloom. My breath plumed in front of me. This wasn’t a general power outage. The streetlights outside were still burning, casting long, dancing shadows of the bare tree branches across the frosted ground.
I pulled on my thickest jacket and hat, grabbed a wrench, and headed downstairs. The main breaker box for my apartment and shop was on the exterior wall, shielded by a small metal cover.
The wind bit at my exposed face as I stepped outside. Snowflakes, fat and wet, were beginning to fall.
I shone my flashlight on the breaker box. The cover was slightly ajar. My heart sank.
The main power lines, thick black cables that fed electricity to my entire living and working space, had been cleanly severed. Not frayed or chewed by rodents, but cut with deliberate, commercial-grade wire cutters. The copper strands gleamed raw in the flashlight beam.
This wasn’t an accident. This was sabotage.
I scanned the wall further down. There, where the fuel line for my oil heater ran from the external tank, a heavy brass padlock had been clamped around the shut-off valve. It was a high-security lock, one I didn’t recognize. I tried my own master key, then a few others from my toolbox. None fit.
Only Victoria would have a key to a lock like that. Or Marcus, acting on her orders.
A surge of cold fury, sharper than the arctic wind, coursed through me. She wasn’t just trying to evict me; she was trying to drive me out, literally, by freezing me out of my home. My hands, already numb from the cold, tightened into fists.
The storm raged, rattling the windows of my dark apartment. I stood there for a long moment, the flashlight beam illuminating the severed wires and the locked fuel line. Victoria wanted me gone, and she didn’t care if I froze to death in the process.
But this wasn’t just about me anymore. This was about a pattern, a relentless campaign of harassment and fraud. I wasn’t just fighting for my home; I was fighting for survival.
I turned back inside, the cold following me. I had to find a way to fight back, a way to expose her for what she was doing. And I knew just where to start looking.
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