His name was Corbin, and my sister had met him fourteen months earlier at a charity event my mother helped organise. He lifted his head because he already knew the account numbers. He had been one of the three shell companies.
The below-market purchase of my house was never a coincidence and my parents were never the masterminds. They were the access. Corbin had spent over a year positioning himself inside my family, getting engaged to my sister, learning that I held a property tied to something federal, and waiting for the moment my mother’s vanity and my expired power of attorney could be turned into a doorway.
