Chapter 8 - THE GHOST OF WEST LAKE
Six months after the courthouse doors closed, the West Lake Hills house was sold at a public foreclosure auction on the steps of the Travis County Administration Building.
The bank took it for four hundred thousand dollars less than the outstanding mortgage.
Ethan Vance stood across the street, watching from the shade of an oak tree. He had not shaved in four days. The gray in his beard had spread until it swallowed the dark brown entirely. He wore an old windbreaker over a faded polo, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
He had no office. He had no firm. His architectural license had been suspended for twelve months by the state board for fraudulent certifications on the Mitchell & Croft permits Julian had falsified under his signature stamp.
He had spent the last three months living in a small, damp garage apartment in East Austin, working twenty hours a week as an estimator for a commercial roofing contractor who had known him during his glory days and offered him the job out of an insulting, pitying charity.
When the auctioneer’s hammer struck the portable podium, signaling that the house had officially passed to an investment group from Houston, Ethan turned and walked toward the bus stop.
He didn't have his car anymore. The BMW had been repossessed four weeks after the firm folded.
As he waited on the concrete bench beside the road, a silver Lexus SUV pulled up to the red light directly in front of him.
Ethan looked up.
Behind the wheel sat Claire.
She was wearing a cream-colored silk blouse, her dark hair cut into a chic, shoulder-length bob that moved with the light breeze from her open sunroof. She looked rested, luminous, and five years younger than the day she had walked out of their marriage. Beside her on the passenger seat lay a thick roll of architectural drawings tied with a teal ribbon—the signature color of *Montgomery Design Group.*
Ethan took a step toward the curb, his mouth opening. “Claire?”
The light turned green.
Claire didn't look to the left. She didn't look at the bus stop. She was looking forward, her hands light and confident on the leather steering wheel, laughing softly at something coming through the car’s speaker system.
The Lexus accelerated smoothly down the avenue, its tires humming against the hot asphalt, disappearing into the bright, open horizon of the city.
Ethan stood on the curb, his arm half-raised in the air, the wind from the passing cars whipping his thin jacket against his ribs.
He remembered the morning, six years ago, when she had sat with him at their kitchen table, holding his hands while he cried because his first major proposal had been rejected. He remembered her saying: *“We’ll build it together, Ethan. Even if it takes ten years, I’m never going anywhere.”*
He had believed she would never leave because he had believed she had nowhere else to go. He had believed that her loyalty was a sign of her weakness, rather than the only thing that had ever made him strong.
A city bus groaned to a halt in front of him, hiss of pneumatic brakes cutting off the view of the empty street.
“You getting on, buddy?” the driver called out, unsmiling.
May you like
Ethan Vance lowered his hand, looked down at his scuffed shoes, and stepped into the dark interior of the bus.
***
