Twelve days later, the airport shuttle stopped at the end of my driveway. Preston stepped out with Kiara on his arm, both sunburned and laughing after their Santorini trip. Carter and Sadie followed with their luggage. Then Preston noticed the new iron gate blocking the driveway. Beside it stood a gray storage container with his name painted across the side—and my attorney, Helen Marsh, waiting with a folder.

Preston stormed toward the keypad and entered the old code. Nothing happened. He tried again before shouting, “What is this?” Helen calmly handed him a document. “Mr. Ashby, this property belongs to the Whitcomb Family Trust. You were never an owner.” Preston froze. Then another man stepped from a parked car and approached us. “I’m with Lakeshore Bank,” he said. “And we need to discuss the loan you took out against this property.”

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