It was Chad Stockton, the sales manager from the Ford dealership who had personally driven the Mustang to my property that morning to hand over the keys.

He stopped at the edge of the patio, his smile faltering as thirty pairs of hostile eyes snapped toward him.

“Mr.

Coulter,” he said, clearing his throat, holding out the sealed envelope like a peace offering.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.

We finalized your paperwork this morning, but this was dropped at our reception desk an hour ago by a legal courier.