“First,” she told me, “no more courthouse appearances alone.

Second, we need to inspect the property, document its condition, and check for anyone trying to sell or encumber it without authority.

Third, we don’t assume bad behavior is proof.

We follow records.”

Those were instructions I understood.

We drove to Sycamore Ridge Road with a licensed home inspector named Allen and a locksmith Mara had arranged.

The front gate was chained from the inside, though my padlock lay broken in the grass.

Somebody had fitted a new lock to the back door.