Page 43 of Dream Chaser

Asshole. He knew. He knew I’d asked for a divorce, and now I was even more certain Preston wouldn’t make it easy.

I’d had enough of his bullshit.

I fished my phone from my purse and dialed 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the female dispatcher asked in a monotonous voice.

I glanced at David, who stood staring at me. “Not an emergency, but there’s an unauthorized construction crew on my property that refuses to leave.”

“Where are you?”

“25 Creek Lane, Fairview.”

“I’ll send someone over.”

Next to me, David scoffed, shaking his head. “Preston paid me. He authorized the work, and he’s your husband. Good luck making them believe you didn’t want this.”

I headed for the kitchen with David on my heels. “We’ll see what happens when the police get here. You could also order your guys to pack and leave now that the legal owner of the property is here.”

He expelled a disbelieving laugh. “You’re being difficult.”

I swallowed a curse. He hadn’t seen difficult yet.

In the kitchen, my gaze fell upon the bare wall where the turquoise cabinets Grandpa made and I painted used to hang. They were lying on the dust-covered floor by the window in a sad pile.

Even if I had renovated the property, I wouldn’t have replaced them. And now someone had torn them out—someone who’d never cared about me or my feelings, much less the things I held dear.

Grandma’s pots and pans were carelessly strewn about the kitchen island. The patterned tiles behind the kitchen counter were missing, too.

Preston always said he didn’t have money for this “wreck” and now this? My jaw shook, but I willed myself to calm down. David wouldn’t see me cry.

At least Grandma’s bedroom seemed the same. Her favorite armchair stood in the corner by the window. Next to it was a small oval table with a vase on top. A thin layer of dust covered the plastic flowers. Guilt pricked at my heart. She wanted me to take care of the house, and I’d let her down. I brushed the dust off the sun-bleached petals, swallowing tears just as a car’s engine rumbled outside.

I hurried out. A middle-aged man with graying temples stepped out of the police cruiser and walked over, his gait slow.

“Officer Smith,” he said. “What’s going on, ma’am?”

“Nova Lockhart. Well, Marshall for now. We’re getting a divorce. I didn’t authorize any work on my property. I want them to leave.”

He eyed me skeptically. “Do you have ID?”

I pulled out my wallet and handed it over. He checked the license, then gave it back. “Who hired them?”

“My soon-to-be ex-husband hired the contractor.”

David stepped forward. “Officer, this is a misunderstanding. Mr. and Mrs. Marshall both gave me permission to renovate the house.”

“Then show the officer the contract I signed,” I snapped, curling my hands into fists. “Shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

David’s jaw tightened. He shifted his weight. “I don’t have it with me.”

The officer sighed. “Whose name is on the deed?”

“Mine,” I said.

“The work has already been paid for, officer,” David cut in, looking at the policeman as if I didn’t exist. “If Mrs. Marshall didn’t like the color of the walls, we can change it. No need to waste your time.”

Officer Smith crossed his arms. “The owner didn’t authorize the renovations. Stop work immediately and leave the property.”