I assumed he had decided to focus on his trip, convinced he could fix everything when he returned.

On Tuesday afternoon, the sky over Boulder was a heavy, dark gray, threatening snow.

I sat at Molly’s kitchen table, my laptop open, staring at the security feed of Redwood Crest Drive.

The cash buyer’s crew had been working for three days straight.

They had parked a massive, yellow metal dumpster in the center of the driveway.

The customized wrap-around wooden deck that Brent had insisted on building last summer was already half-demolished, its cedar planks piled neatly near the curb.

Large sheets of clear plastic covered the front windows, and a warning sign about asbestos abatement hung on the front door.

Inside, the crystal chandelier that Diane had chosen for the foyer was gone, replaced by a bare construction lightbulb hanging from a yellow cord.

“They’re landing in an hour,” Molly said, walking into the kitchen and setting a mug of black coffee in front of me.

“The process server is already at the airport,” I said, checking my watch.