His name was Corbin, and my sister had met him fourteen months earlier at a charity event my mother helped organise. He lifted his head because he already knew the account numbers. He had been one of the three shell companies. The below-market purchase of my house was never a coincidence and my parents were never the masterminds. They were the access. Corbin had spent over a year positioning himself inside my family, getting engaged to my sister, learning that I held a property tied to something federal, and waiting for the moment my mother’s vanity and my expired power of attorney could be turned into a doorway.

The house was never really the target. The people inside it were. Renata Salcedo and her two children were witnesses in a case Corbin’s associates very much wanted to collapse, and a compromised safe location is how you make witnesses disappear without ever touching them yourself. We evacuated them ninety minutes before his buyers were scheduled to take possession.

My parents were not charged as conspirators. The attorneys accepted that they had been used, which is its own particular humiliation for two people who spent the afternoon insisting they had done me a favour.