The gate stayed locked. Instead of a key, a gift-wrapped box tied with a red ribbon sat on a stone pedestal beside the keypad, and next to it stood my attorney, Ms. Whitaker, with two uniformed security guards. Natalie laughed uneasily and reached for the box. She tore the ribbon and found a thick folder, a small recorder, and a note in my handwriting that read, “A gift for everyone who helped decide my home was theirs.”

Natalie pressed play, and her voice echoed across the driveway from a call I had recorded the week before. “Mom will never fight it. Marcus’s parents already paid me ninety thousand dollars, and I’ll sign the deed once they move in.” Marcus’s father turned toward her. “Paid you for what?” he asked. Natalie’s face went white as the wind lifted the first page of the folder, revealing a bank transfer.