Brent opened the door.

He held his glass of champagne in one hand and his phone in the other.

Diane and Karen stepped up behind him, peering over his shoulders.

Through the porch microphone, the contractor’s voice came through my laptop speaker, clear and sharp.

“Are you Brent Vance?” the contractor asked.

“Who wants to know?” Brent said, his voice dripping with annoyance. “We’re in the middle of a private family celebration.”

The contractor held up a laminated clipboard.

“My name is Craig,” he said. “I’m the project manager for Crestview Holdings LLC.”

“I don’t care who you are,” Brent said, reaching to close the door. “Get off my property.”

Craig put his steel-toed boot in the doorframe, stopping it from shutting.

“It’s not your property,” Craig said calmly. “As of twelve minutes ago, this house belongs to Crestview Holdings.”

Brent laughed, a harsh, dry sound.

“You’ve got the wrong house, pal,” Brent said. “My wife and I own this home.”

“Tessa Vance was the sole owner of record,” Craig said, tapping the top paper on his clipboard. “She signed the transfer deed, and the wire transfer cleared. The deed is officially recorded with the county.”