A tall man in a dark trench coat climbed out of the driver’s side with a thick brown accordion file under his arm.

Mr.

Vance, the court-appointed real estate administrator, came up the driveway with measured steps.

“Good afternoon,” he said, pulling off his leather glove to shake my hand.

“Are the keys ready for the master lockbox?”

I reached into my purse and took out the brass key ring with three house keys and the automatic garage door opener.

I let them drop into his open palm.

“All my premarital property is out of the house,” I said.