Four days later, Colby pulled into the driveway with Savannah beside him, a rented moving truck behind them, and his parents following in a second car. He strutted to the front door with a key in hand, but the lock no longer turned. Taped to the oak door was a notice on company letterhead, and beside it stood my attorney, Mr. Calloway, holding a thick folder.

“Mr. Pruitt,” he said calmly, “this property belongs to Sterling Consulting, and you have no lease.” Colby laughed, then read the page, and his smile died. Savannah stepped back, one hand on her belly. Marjorie snatched the folder, flipped to the second page, and went pale. “Where did you get these bank statements?” she whispered. I stepped out from the garage, and the whole driveway fell silent.