By late November, the Sinclair house sat with a for-sale sign planted crooked in the front lawn. The kind of sign that goes when a family is selling out of necessity rather than choice. I watched it from my porch some mornings, coffee in hand, and felt none of the satisfaction I might have expected back in September when Gregory was still filming my fight with his son and shouting about assault to a police officer who clearly wasn’t buying it.
Watching a family lose their whole home doesn’t feel like victory. It just feels heavy in a different, quieter way than everything that came before it. The bank foreclosed in early December. I found out from Renee, who’d become something like a genuine friend over those months, that Gregory’s legal fees alone had eaten through whatever cash reserves the family had left once the federal investigations gathered speed, and once his development contracts stayed frozen through the fall building season, the income simply stopped coming in fast enough to cover what he owed.
They moved out on a gray Tuesday morning. A moving truck backed into the driveway where Tyler used to rev his motorcycle at 6 a.m. And by that afternoon, the house was empty, and the street was quiet in a way it hadn’t been since before I’d moved in. Nobody threw a party about it. Nobody gathered at the mailbox to gossip with any real relish.
I think in the end, most of the neighborhood had simply grown tired of the noise the Sinclairs brought with them everywhere they went, and their absence felt less like triumph and more like an exhale. A street finally allowed to settle back into itself. Tyler came to see me the week before they left. I remember being surprised by the knock on my door, surprised further to find him standing there alone.
No phone in hand, no audience, nothing performative about the way he stood on my porch with his hands deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders drawn in a way I’d never seen on him before. He looked younger than 22 in that moment. He looked honestly like a kid who’d finally run out of road. I wanted to say something before we go, he said, not quite meeting my eyes at first.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot. The fight, everything before it, too. The stuff with Malik’s bike, the way I talked to you, all of it. He paused, jaw working like the words were harder to get out than he’d expected. I should have listened. You tried to tell me something that day at the party, and I was too busy trying to look tough in front of a camera to actually hear it.
