Chapter 9 - The Return to the Ruins
Flight DL 83 from Paris-Charles de Gaulle to Atlanta departed at 1:45 PM on the following Friday.
I knew this because I checked the flight status on my phone while sitting in the terminal of the Brussels airport, having taken a morning Eurostar train from Paris to spend a long weekend in Belgium before heading back to the United States.
The Castillo family was on that flight.
I had verified with Delta’s reservation management tool that passengers Hector, Elena, and Danielle Castillo had checked in for their main cabin seats: Row 38, middle and window seats, right beside the aft galleys.
They had spent ten days in France.
Ten days of cheap bread, hostile interactions with budget hotel managers, endless rain, and the humiliation of having their cards declined at every metro station and pharmacy. They had not seen the top of the Eiffel Tower; they had not dined at the bistro on the Seine; they had not stepped foot inside the private dressing rooms of Le Bon Marché.
They had lived like refugees in the city of light, bound together by mutual recrimination and the bitter, curdled realization that their bank accounts were empty.
I arrived in Atlanta three days later, flying in quietly on an Air Canada flight through Toronto.
I didn't take a taxi back to Inman Park.
I took an Uber directly to a corporate storage facility in Midtown.
Waiting for me there was Rachel, along with two professional movers in gray jumpsuits and a master locksmith named Greg whom Rachel had hired through her design firm’s contacts.
"Everything is set, Val," Rachel said, wrapping her arms around me in a fierce, crushing hug the moment I stepped out of the car. She pulled back, her eyes immediately scanning my cheek. The bruise was almost gone, reduced to a faint, yellowish shadow that looked like an old smudge of bronze powder. "You look... different."
"I am different," I said. "Let’s go."
We drove in convoy to the Inman Park loft.
The tree-lined street was quiet. The afternoon sun filtered through the massive oak trees, casting dappled shadows across the brick façade of the converted industrial building.
We walked up the concrete stairs to the third floor.
Greg, the locksmith, went to work immediately. Within fifteen minutes, the heavy commercial deadbolts were removed and replaced with high-security Medeco cylinders that could not be bumped or picked. A new electronic keypad was installed, programmed with a random eight-digit code known only to me.
Then, we walked inside.
The loft was silent. Dust motes drifted through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
In the corner of the guest bedroom sat three massive plastic storage tubs belonging to Danielle, filled with shoes she never wore and old college textbooks. In the closet hung two of Hector’s winter coats and a set of golf clubs he had left there because "my garage in Cobb County is too damp."
"Mover boys," Rachel said, turning to the two men standing in the hallway. "Everything in that closet, those three bins, and that set of clubs. Take it down to the truck. It goes to the storage unit on Northside Drive. One month is paid. After that, it’s not our problem."
"Got it, ma'am," the lead mover said.
It took them forty minutes to strip the apartment of every single trace of the Castillo family.
When they were done, the guest room was completely empty—just clean hardwood floors and white walls reflecting the afternoon light.
I walked through the rooms with a clipboard, accompanied by Marcus Vance—not the gate agent, but Arthur Vance’s nephew, who worked as an associate for an upscale residential brokerage in Buckhead.
"It’s in immaculate shape, Valerie," Marcus said, tapping his iPad. "We list it on Friday at $585,000. In this neighborhood, with these finishes? We’ll have multiple offers by Sunday evening. We can close in twenty-one days if we take a cash buyer."
"Take the cash buyer," I told him. "Even if it’s ten thousand under asking. I want the deed transferred before the end of the month."
"Consider it done."
I handed Marcus the set of keys, kept one for myself, and walked out the door.
I didn't look back at the reclaimed wood island. I didn't look at the high ceilings.
May you like
It was just wood and plaster.
My home was wherever I decided my boundaries were respected.
