Chapter 3 - The Eviction Notices & The Web Unravels
By two o'clock on Sunday afternoon, the Palmer family was unspooling like cheap thread.
Angie and Spencer had taken an Uber back to downtown Colorado Springs, riding in absolute, suffocating silence. Spencer had attempted three times to check his business accounts; every login tied to his email address returned an error message indicating that his domain access—which was hosted through a Palmer Screen corporate enterprise server—had been frozen pending internal audit.
When their Uber pulled up to the curb of *The Luminary*, the city’s premier luxury high-rise on Tejon Street, Angie’s heart sank into her stomach.
Standing in the sleek, marble-clad vestibule were two uniformed El Paso County Sheriff’s deputies, flanking Arthur Pendelton, the building’s chief property manager. Beside them rested two large commercial moving bins made of heavy gray plastic.
Angie pushed through the revolving glass doors, her heels clicking frantically. "Arthur! What is going on? Why are there police in the lobby?"
Arthur Pendelton looked up from his clipboard. He had always been obsequious to Angie, offering warm smiles and holding elevator doors whenever she returned from shopping trips. Today, his face was carved from granite.
"Mrs. Hayes," Arthur said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. "I was hoping you would arrive before we had to drill the deadbolts."
"Drill the deadbolts?" Angie gasped, clutching her chest. "Are you insane? That is our home! We live in Penthouse B!"
"You *occupied* Penthouse B," Arthur corrected her, stepping forward and extending a manila envelope. "At 7:45 this morning, building management received a formal Notice of Lease Termination and Non-Renewal from the corporate leaseholder, Palmer Screen Holdings LLC. The notice was accompanied by an expedited surrender affidavit executed by Marcus Vance, legal counsel for the tenant of record."
"We are the tenants!" Angie screamed, her voice echoing off the glass and concrete, causing the lobby concierge to avert his eyes. "We have lived there for three years!"
"You are listed on the master lease as *temporary corporate guests*," Arthur said, unfazed. "The rent—forty-eight hundred dollars a month—has been paid directly via automated commercial wire from Palmer Screen Technologies. That wire was officially terminated as of midnight. Furthermore, the tenant of record has surrendered the premises and authorized building management to repossess the unit immediately. Under the terms of the corporate commercial lease, sixty days' notice does not apply to non-employee third-party occupants."
Spencer lunged forward, grabbing the envelope from Arthur’s hands. His fingers shook violently as he scanned the legal document.
There it was. Every line was airtight. The corporate signatory on the original 2021 lease wasn't Lloyd Palmer. It wasn't Spencer Hayes.
The signatory was: *Veronica Palmer, Chief Executive Officer, Palmer Screen Holdings LLC.*
Beneath her signature was the corporate resolution, clearly stating that occupancy of Penthouse B was contingent upon active executive service to the parent firm. Attached to the back was an official declaration of immediate termination of license to occupy, signed at 6:00 AM by Marcus Vance.
"This is illegal!" Spencer shouted, his face turning an ugly, mottled purple. "We have furniture up there! My suits! Angie’s jewelry! Our entire lives are in that apartment!"
"The deputies are here to ensure an orderly twenty-four-hour retrieval process," Arthur said calmly, gesturing to the gray bins. "You have until tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM to remove personal effects, clothing, and portable electronics. All major furniture, appliances, and fixtures purchased under the corporate furnishing allowance remain the legal property of Palmer Screen Holdings and will be inventoried by an independent auditor. If you attempt to remove corporate property, the deputies will arrest you on the spot."
One of the deputies, a broad-shouldered man with a taser strapped to his vest, took a deliberate step forward, resting his thumbs on his duty belt. "Ma'am, sir. We can go up together now, or you can come back with a moving van. But you are not remaining in the common areas without an escort."
Angie looked at Spencer. Spencer looked at Angie.
For the first time in their seven-year marriage, the veneer of effortless wealth, the curated Instagram stories, the country club lunches, and the boastful family dinners vanished, revealing the terrifying, hollow abyss beneath. They had no savings. They had no assets. Every dollar Spencer had ever made had been spent on golf clubs, luxury watches, and dinners to project the image of a high-rolling real estate mogul, while Veronica’s company quietly paid the roof over their heads.
"Spencer..." Angie choked out, tears of pure hysteria finally breaking through her mascara. "Spencer, what are we going to do? Where are we going to sleep?"
Spencer didn't answer her. He turned around, leaned his forehead against the cold marble pillar of the lobby, and vomited into a decorative potted fern.
***
Twenty miles to the north, in the gated enclave of Pine Creek, Bernice Palmer was having a complete nervous breakdown.
The driveway of 4410 Promontory Bluff View was empty.
The Apex transport truck had come and gone an hour earlier. Bernice’s Lexus—her beautiful, pearl-white crossover with the heated leather seats and the custom audio system—had been winched onto a flatbed while three of her neighbors, out walking their labradoodles, had stopped on the sidewalk to watch. Bernice had stood on the front lawn in her silk slippers, screaming obscenities at the tow truck driver until her voice gave out, while Lloyd had sat on the front porch steps with his head buried in his hands.
Inside the house, the silence was deafening.
Bernice paced the polished hardwood of the gourmet kitchen, a glass of tap water trembling in her hand. The refrigerator, an eight-thousand-dollar Sub-Zero unit, hummed softly. The granite island was covered in unopened anniversary cards from the night before.
"Call her again, Lloyd!" Bernice shrieked, slamming the water glass onto the counter, splashing water across the marble. "Call that ungrateful little bitch right now! Use the landline!"
Lloyd didn't move from the kitchen barstool. He looked ten years older than he had twenty-four hours ago. His gray hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot.
"The landline is dead, Bernice," Lloyd said, his voice flat, deadened by shock. "The internet is out. The cable is out. Everything was bundled under the commercial telecommunications contract with Palmer Screen. They shut it all off at noon."
"Then we drive over there!" Bernice cried, her hands pulling at her hair. "We take Spencer’s car—"
"Spencer doesn't have a car, Bernice!" Lloyd roared, finally snapping, his voice cracking with a lifetime of suppressed terror. "Spencer’s car was leased through the same fleet account! Angie just texted me from a stranger’s phone—they're being evicted from the Luminary right now! The police are standing in their living room with moving boxes!"
Bernice stopped pacing. She froze, her eyes bulging. "Evicted? That’s impossible. Angie told me Spencer’s firm paid for that loft!"
"Angie lied to you!" Lloyd screamed, standing up so violently that his barstool crashed backward onto the floor. "They all lied! We all lied! We sat here for seven years pretending we were royalty, pretending I made smart investments, pretending Angie was a corporate genius, while Veronica paid for everything! Every single cent!"
"She did not!" Bernice yelled back, her chest heaving. "This is our house! My name is on the deed!"
"Your name is *not* on the deed, Bernice!" Lloyd shouted, slamming his fist onto the island. "I told you this in 2017 when the bank was going to auction this house off after my sporting goods store went bankrupt! You wouldn't listen! You went to Veronica, crying and begging, telling her we’d be on the street! Veronica bought the mortgage out of foreclosure through her holding company! We don't own this house! We have never owned this house!"
As if on cue, the heavy brass door knocker on the front double doors sounded.
*Thud. Thud. Thud.*
Bernice gasped, clutching her throat. "It’s her. She’s come to apologize. She realized she went too far."
Bernice smoothed her cardigan with trembling fingers, drew herself up to her full height, and marched toward the grand foyer. She was going to make Veronica crawl. She was going to demand a full written apology, a new Lexus, and double the monthly transfer before she ever allowed her to step foot in this family again.
She pulled the heavy oak door open with a dramatic yank.
"It’s about time you—"
Bernice cut off.
It wasn't Veronica.
Standing on the covered porch was a woman in a sharply tailored navy suit holding a clipboard, flanked by two private process servers and a uniformed lieutenant from the El Paso County Sheriff’s Department.
"Bernice Palmer? Lloyd Palmer?" the woman asked crisply.
"Who are you?" Bernice demanded, stepping back. "Get off my property!"
"I am an authorized process agent for the Fourth Judicial District Court," the woman stated calmly, stepping across the threshold just far enough to prevent the door from being closed. "I am serving you with Case Number 2024-CV-08914: *Veritas Assets LLC versus Lloyd Palmer, Bernice Palmer, and All Other Occupants.*"
She handed a thick stack of legal documents directly to Lloyd, who had walked up behind his wife.
"What is this?" Lloyd asked in a whisper, though he already knew.
"That is a formal Thirty-Day Notice of Termination of Permissive Tenancy and Demand for Vacant Possession," the agent announced in a clear, professional tone that carried across the manicured cul-de-sac. "Veritas Assets LLC has revoked all occupancy permissions for 4410 Promontory Bluff View effective thirty days from today’s date. If the premises are not entirely vacated and broom-clean by 5:00 PM on the thirty-first of this month, a writ of restitution will be executed, and all personal property remaining inside will be removed to the curb."
"You can't do this!" Bernice shrieked, lunging forward, trying to slap the papers out of Lloyd's hand. "This is my home! I have lived here for fifteen years! My daughter owns that company!"
The process agent looked Bernice directly in the eye, her expression totally devoid of sympathy.
"Attached to the eviction notice is Exhibit B, Mrs. Palmer," the woman said. "An Emergency Ex Parte Temporary Restraining Order issued by Judge Margaret Vance at 9:15 this morning. You and your daughter, Angela Hayes, are legally prohibited from coming within five hundred yards of Veronica Palmer, her minor child Blake Palmer, her personal residence, or the corporate offices of Palmer Screen Technologies. If you attempt to contact Veronica Palmer via phone, email, text message, third-party messaging, or social media, it constitutes a Class 1 misdemeanor, and the sheriff's department will take you into custody immediately."
The sheriff’s lieutenant nodded once, his face grim. "Consider yourself formally served, ma'am. Have a good afternoon."
The group turned and walked down the flagstone steps, leaving the front door wide open to the cool mountain wind.
Lloyd stood in the middle of the foyer, looking down at the legal papers. On the top sheet, highlighted in bold black ink, was the signature of the district judge, and beneath it, the signature of the petitioner:
*Veronica Palmer, Managing Director, Veritas Assets LLC.*
Bernice slowly sank down onto the bottom step of the grand curved staircase. The house was cold. The lights were out. The cars were gone. The money was gone.
May you like
And for the first time in thirty-two years, the daughter she had called a useless leech had closed her hand into a fist.
***
