Twelve days later, the airport shuttle stopped at the end of the driveway, and Preston stepped out with Kiara on his arm, both of them sunburned and laughing. Then he saw the new iron gate, locked. Beside it sat a gray storage container with his name stenciled on the side. My attorney, Helen Marsh, stood next to it in a navy suit, holding a folder.
Carter and Sadie climbed out behind him and stopped. Preston marched to the gate and punched in the old code. Nothing happened. “What is this?” he shouted. Helen handed him the first document. “Mr. Ashby, this property belongs to the Whitcomb Family Trust. You were never an owner.” Then a second man stepped forward from his car. “And I’m with Lakeshore Bank,” he said, “about the loan you took out against it.”
