Twenty-three days later, Dennis’s truck rolled down the gravel drive and stopped at the gate. A new chain hung across it, with a notice from the sheriff’s office taped to the lock. He climbed out furious, only to find that his key no longer fit the front door. Then it opened from inside.

Elaine Foster, a woman in a gray suit he had never met, stood in my doorway holding a thick folder with his name on the tab. Behind her, a stranger from the credit union sat at my kitchen table, and a deputy waited by the porch steps. “Mr. Mercer,” Elaine said evenly, “your wife would like you to hear what she found at the courthouse.” Dennis turned pale, and the folder landed on the table.