He pushed them back up, then took them off entirely.

He stared at the empty space.

Where the custom-designed, three-story modular home had stood four days ago, there was nothing.

Only the flat, grey limestone foundation pads remained, cleared of all debris.

The gravel was raked neat.

The connections for the plumbing and electricity were capped with red plastic seals.

In the exact center of the clearing stood the single wooden stake.

The clear plastic envelope containing the legal notice fluttered in the wind.

“What is this?” Richard muttered.

His voice was barely a whisper, but the dry air carried it to where I parked.

I shut off the engine of the station wagon.

The silence of the hill settled over us, broken only by the ticking of the cooling radiator.

“Stay in the car,” I told the kids.

I opened my door and stepped out.

The heat hit me like a physical blow, smelling of hot dust and cedar.

“Richard,” I called out.

He spun around.

His face was pale, his mouth slightly open.

“Alexandra?” he stammered.

He pointed a shaking finger at the empty space.