Chapter 3 - The Audit of the Queen
We pulled into our driveway twenty minutes later. Our house was warm, modern, and filled with photographs of Leah—laughing on a beach, holding a newborn Ellie, smiling in our kitchen. It was a home built on genuine warmth, completely distinct from the sterile, judgmental museum that was Barbara’s ranch house.
I helped Ellie wash up, tucked her into bed, and read her favorite chapter of Anne of Green Gables. By nine-fifteen, her breathing had slowed into the steady, peaceful rhythm of a sleeping child.
I kissed her forehead, whispered that I loved her, and walked quietly down the hallway to my home office.
The room smelled faintly of old paper and cedar. I sat down at my heavy oak desk, flipped open my laptop, and unlocked the password-protected finance folder labeled Hutchkins Estate & Support.
Barbara Hutchkins was a master of financial illusion. To her neighbors in Crestwood, she was a dignified widow living comfortably on a pension and the remnants of her late husband’s modest investments. The reality, however, was vastly different. When Arthur Hutchkins passed away ten years ago, he left behind a mountain of gambling debts, unpaid credit cards, and a heavily mortgaged property. Barbara had spent the last decade robbing Peter to pay Paul, maintaining a facade of upper-middle-class respectability through sheer stubbornness and deceit.
When Leah grew ill, Barbara had panicked. Her medical bills were mounting, her property taxes were overdue, and her car was on the verge of repossession. Out of desperation, she had turned to Leah. And Leah, with her boundless, forgiving heart, had begged me to step in.
"Just help her, Derek," Leah had whispered from her hospital bed, her voice thin and frail. "She's all the family I have left. Promise me you'll keep a roof over her head."
I had promised. And I had honored that promise meticulously, legally, and generously.
I opened a spreadsheet that tracked every single wire transfer, auto-debit, and mortgage payment made over the past thirty-six months.
Mortgage payment: Paid directly from my corporate account to First National Bank of Crestwood ($1,450/month).
Medical supplemental insurance: Automatically withdrawn from my personal checking account ($380/month).
Car lease (2024 Toyota RAV4): Co-signed by me, monthly payments routed directly through my business account ($420/month).
Utilities, property insurance, and miscellaneous emergency funds: Averaging roughly $800/month.
Total cost of maintaining Barbara Hutchkins' illusion of superiority: roughly $3,050 every single month.
I looked at the digital clock in the corner of my screen. 9:42 PM.
My warning back at the dining table had been precise. “You’ve got three hours left to run your mouth.”
I hadn't spoken those words out of blind rage. They were calculated. Three hours from the moment we walked out of her dining room at roughly 8:45 PM would bring us to midnight. Midnight was the exact threshold where automated bank transfers executed, recurring subscription services renewed, and legal authorizations could be instantly revoked via corporate portals.
I picked up my smartphone, dialed my attorney and personal friend, Marcus Vance, and put the phone to my ear. It rang twice before a raspy, midnight-oil voice answered.
"Derek? Do you know what time it is, man? Some of us actually sleep."
"Wake up, Marcus," I said, my voice ice-cold. "I need you to draft a few legal revocations and send over some asset-freezing notices before midnight."
Marcus let out a heavy sigh, the sound of rustling bedsheets coming through the speaker. "Is this about Barbara again? What did she do this time?"
"She insulted my daughter," I replied flatly. "She called an eight-year-old child a disappointment to her face at a family dinner."
May you like
There was a sudden, heavy pause on the other end of the line. Marcus knew how hard I had worked to keep the peace with that woman out of respect for Leah. He also knew my limits.
"Ah," Marcus said, his tone instantly shifting from sleepy annoyance to sharp professionalism. "Say no more. What do you need me to do?"
