Chapter 6 - The Sedona Reality Check
As Michael sat paralyzed by shock in the living room, Hattie realized that their situation was spiraling completely out of control. If they were truly locked out of the apartment and Michael’s firm had cut ties with them, they had nowhere in the city to turn.
“We are going to Sedona,” Hattie declared, grabbing her designer handbag with shaking hands. “My old house is still there. We’ll stay there until you figure out how to put this little country witch in her place legally. Gather your clothes, Michael. We are leaving right now.”
Michael slowly stood up, looking around the apartment that he had treated with such casual arrogance. He packed a single suitcase with his remaining clothes, casting one last lingering look at the master bedroom where we had supposedly shared a life. Only now did he realize how hollow, how utterly dependent, his entire existence had been upon the woman he had so foolishly betrayed.
They packed Hattie’s numerous bags into the trunk of Michael’s luxury sedan and drove out of the city toward the mountainous desert town of Sedona. The three-hour drive was spent in suffocating silence, broken only by Hattie’s occasional mutters of venomous hatred toward me and my mother.
When they finally arrived at the property in Sedona, however, the illusion of their "traditional high-society family background" suffered its final, fatal blow.
The house—a sprawling, aging Spanish-style villa that Hattie always boasted about belonging to her family's ancestral legacy—did not look welcoming. In fact, standing by the iron front gate was not a welcoming committee of local socialites, but a stern-looking county sheriff's deputy holding a bright orange legal notice.
Michael pulled the car to a stop near the driveway, stepping out cautiously.
“Can I help you, officer?” Michael asked nervously, adjusting his jacket.
The deputy looked down at a clipboard, then up at Michael and Hattie, who had stepped out of the passenger side with a haughty scowl.
“Are you Michael Coleman and Hattie Coleman?” the deputy asked.
“Yes, I am. And this is my mother, owner of this estate,” Michael replied defensively.
“Well, Mr. Coleman, you might want to check your records,” the deputy said, handing over a thick sheaf of legal papers. “This property has been under foreclosure execution by First Arizona Bank for over six months due to accumulated unpaid mortgages, delinquent property taxes, and defaulted construction loans totaling over four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The bank has officially assumed possession as of this morning.”
Hattie let out a piercing shriek, clutching her chest as if she had been physically struck. “Foreclosure?! That’s impossible! This is a Coleman family estate! My husband left this to me! We have social standing in this town!”
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“Lady, social standing doesn't pay municipal tax liens or bank mortgages,” the deputy replied coldly. “You have two hours to remove your personal belongings from the premises before the locks are officially changed by bank marshals.”
Michael stared at his mother in absolute horror. The grand estate, the noble family heritage, the wealthy background she had lorded over me and my mother from day one—it was all a massive, debt-ridden lie. They were entirely, utterly destitute.
