He dropped his sunglasses onto the concrete.

He scrambled up the remaining steps of the porch, pushing past a worker who was carrying a load of metal railings.

Diane and Karen followed him, dragging two of their heavy suitcase rollers up the driveway.

Brent grabbed the brass handle of the front door and pulled.

It didn’t budge.

He pulled again, harder this time, throw his shoulder against the solid oak.

Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his keyring, and tried to jam his key into the lock.

The key didn’t even fit into the keyway.

I had hired a commercial locksmith at seven o’clock that morning to replace the entire locking mechanism.

The smart-lock keypad Brent had installed to track my movements was completely gone.

In its place was a heavy-duty, grade-one commercial deadbolt that required a physical key he had never seen.

Brent stared at the lock, then looked up at the empty space where the electronic keypad used to be.

He began pounding on the door with his fist, the sound muffled but persistent through the camera’s audio.