PART 6 — The Living Room Confrontation
Jons stood panting in the middle of my small living room as if he had run a marathon. His coat was unzipped and his eyes were nearly popping out of their sockets from pure frustration. Noah was so startled by his father's sudden outburst that he dropped the wrapped gift. The cooled-down present rolled with a soft thud under the coffee table.
"Dad, stop being scary," Noah squeaked, trying to hide behind my back.
I slowly rose from my crouched position and turned to face my son. For the first time in my life, I didn't see Jons through the eyes of a proud father, but through the eyes of a stranger who had become thoroughly spoiled and selfish. Not a trace of shame about last night. Not an ounce of remorse for putting his own father out in the freezing cold on New Year's Eve. The only thing that mattered was his own skin.
"Calm down, Jons," I said in a voice that sounded frighteningly calm. "Don't yell while the little one is here. Or did you forget how you behaved yesterday on the doorstep of your own house?"
Jons nearly choked on his words. A red blush rushed up his neck to his face. "That... that was a misunderstanding! Sabine was stressed out from the New Year's rush. You know how she is when everything happens at once. But that's not what this is about! The notary is waiting for us! If we don't sign today before twelve, the whole option expires and we lose all the money!"
"What money, Jons?" I asked, crossing my arms and staring hard at him. "The bank's money, or the money from your mother's foundation that you're trying to appropriate via a forged power of attorney?"
Jons stiffened on the spot. The color drained from his face instantly. His mouth fell half open, but no sound came out anymore. Arrogance gave way to chilling, clammy fear. He looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost.
"Wh... what are you saying?" he stuttered, taking a step back. "What are you talking about?"
"You know very well what I'm talking about," I said calmly, walking to the cabinet and leaving the door ajar. "You thought I was an old, demented man you could get to sign anything under the guise of a municipal tax reduction. You thought you could show me the door on New Year's Eve and that the next morning I would show up like a tame lamb to legalize your illegal real estate construction."
Jons grabbed his head. His hands began to shake violently. "Sabine... Sabine said it had to be this way... She said you wouldn't understand anyway..."
"Sabine trapped both of you, Jons," I said sternly. "And you blindly followed out of fear of her mood. But the game is over. Mr. Houtman has already been brought in. The documents are at the court. And this afternoon, conservatory attachment will be placed on the property at Lindelaan."
It seemed as though the ground was sinking beneath Jons's feet. He grabbed the back of the sofa to keep from falling over. His voice broke as he cried out: "No! You can't do that, Dad! If that house gets attached, we're on the street! The creditors will come after us! They'll seize everything! We're ruined!"
Noah started crying softly by my leg. I looked at my son—my own flesh and blood—and felt no more anger, only a deep, cold emptiness. The bill for their own actions had been presented. And there was no turning back.
