Marissa walked briskly beside me, flanked by two uniformed county sheriff’s deputies, a stern-faced property manager holding a thick binder, and a locksmith carrying heavy steel cases.

When the doorbell chimed, it took three minutes for the door to open. Daniel stood in the threshold, wearing the same wrinkled linen shirt from the catastrophic luncheon.

His styled hair was a greasy mess. The armor of his arrogance was cracked, revealing the terrified little boy underneath.

“You can’t just walk in here with cops,” he snapped, eyes darting to the officers. “This is a private residence. We have rights.”

Marissa didn’t blink. She extracted a sheaf of stamped legal documents from her briefcase and pressed them flat against his chest. “Actually, Mr. Carter, she can.

She owns the deed, the dirt, and the doorknobs. You’re currently trespassing on private corporate property.”