“She tried to cut the padlock off the yard office door on Thursday,” Frank said.

“She wanted the title books for the flatbed trailers.”

“Did you give them to her?” I asked.

“I told her I lost the key in the lake,” Frank said.

At six-thirty, I walked into the glass tower of Pembroke Real Estate in downtown Oakridge.

Christopher Pembroke sat behind a broad clear glass desk in a gray suit tailored without a single wrinkle, squinting at a row of digital property displays like a man smelling spoiled milk.

“You have ten minutes, Avery,” Pembroke said, his deep baritone filling the silent office.