Five Days After I Ended Things With My Ex, a Ruthless Stranger Demanded I Vacate My Late Father's House — But My Inheritance Papers and a Court Appraiser Shocked Them All
The piercing shriek of breaking glass ripped through the quiet of the night. My phone, nestled beside my bed, buzzed with an alert from the workshop’s security system: “Front Window Impact Detected.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Julian’s escalation, just as Sienna had warned.
I fumbled for my glasses, already rushing down the stairs. By the time I reached the front door, the workshop’s external speakers had kicked in, broadcasting the cacophony of shattering wood and heavy footsteps from across the yard.
Through the window, I saw two dark figures inside my workshop. They were men, large and hulking, their faces obscured by ski masks. One held a crowbar, smashing another window, the sound echoing violently through the residential street. The other wielded a can of bright red spray paint, defacing my carefully crafted display pieces, turning my beautiful wood into grotesque canvases.
Then, the second man pulled out a larger can, one that looked like it held a flammable liquid. My father’s precious wood supplies, aged and dried to perfection, were stacked along the back wall, ready to go up in flames. This wasn’t just vandalism; this was an attempt to destroy everything, to wipe out my livelihood completely.
Just as the man began to spray the liquid, the distinct wail of police sirens pierced the night. Blue and red lights flashed, swirling through the trees and illuminating the street. Two municipal patrol cars screeched to a halt in front of my property.
The vandals froze. They dropped their tools, their initial bravado instantly evaporating. One of them fumbled, dropping a clipboard near the front door. Panic-stricken, they scrambled, diving through the freshly shattered windows and disappearing into the labyrinthine alleys behind the workshop.
Within seconds, the patrol officers were out of their cars, flashlights sweeping the area. Detective Frank Novak, a familiar face from the neighborhood beat, approached my door.
“Ms. Linwood? Are you alright?” he called out, his voice calm amidst the chaos.
I opened the door, stepping out into the cold night air. The acrid smell of fresh paint and broken glass hung heavy.
“I’m fine, Detective,” I replied, my voice shaking. “They were vandalizing the workshop.”
Novak nodded, surveying the damage. “We received an anonymous tip about a ‘planned disturbance’ at this address. Good thing we got here when we did.”
Anonymous tip. Sienna. She had truly come through. She wasn’t just warning me; she was actively working against Julian.
One of the other officers approached, holding up the clipboard that had been dropped. “Looks like they left something behind, Detective. A work order. It’s got a name and number on it.”
Novak took the clipboard. His flashlight beam settled on the printed header: “Brock Ventures LLC.” And beneath it, a phone number, unmistakably Julian’s.
A cold, hard realization settled in my gut. Julian wasn’t just sending anonymous thugs. He was stupid enough to leave a direct trail. His arrogance was starting to show.
Detective Novak met my gaze, a grim understanding in his eyes. “We’ll need to get a full statement from you, Ms. Linwood. And we’ll be looking into this ‘Brock Ventures LLC’.”
I nodded, the broken glass glittering under the patrol car lights. The physical pressure Sienna warned about had arrived, but thanks to her, it had been met. Julian had overplayed his hand, leaving a clear connection. This wasn’t just a scare tactic; it was now evidence.
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