From the back seat of my car, I watched the black sedan glide up the curved driveway and stop beside the fountain Evelyn loved to brag about to guests.
Two security professionals stepped out first.
Behind them came Daniel Reeves, my attorney, in a dark coat, carrying a slim leather folder under one arm.
Rodrigo marched down the steps so quickly he nearly slipped.
“What is this?” he shouted.
Daniel did not raise his voice.
“This is the beginning of a correction.”
The front door opened behind Rodrigo.
Evelyn emerged with one hand on the frame, pearls at her throat, silk scarf around her shoulders, chin lifted high in practiced outrage.
“Who let these people in?” she demanded.
Daniel glanced at the gate, then at the house, then at the folder in his hand.
“The owner did.”
It was amazing how much silence one sentence could create.
Even from the driveway, I could see Evelyn’s expression falter before she caught it and rearranged it into contempt.
“Rodrigo,” she snapped, “make them leave.”
He pointed toward my car.
“She is trying to extort us.”
Daniel looked at him as though he had spoken in a language too foolish to answer.
Then he opened the folder and drew out a document.
“This property,” he said, “is held by Halston Residential Holdings, acquired six months before your marriage.
My client is the controlling owner of that holding company.
Tonight’s incident triggered an immediate review of access, expenditures, and occupancy.”
Rodrigo blinked.
“No.”
Daniel held out the deed.
It was not dramatic paper.
It was not glowing.
