“Where is the house?”

“It’s gone, Richard,” I said.

“What do you mean, gone?” he shouted.

He took several quick, angry strides toward me.

His expensive leather shoes kicked up small clouds of white dust.

“Where is my house?”

“The house was built on modular steel frames,” I said.

“It was designed to be assembled and disassembled.”

“I had it moved.”

Valerie stumbled after him, her face a mask of confusion.

“Richard, what is she talking about?” she cried.

“Where are my things? My wedding dress is in the closet!”

“Your personal belongings are safe,” I said to her.

“They were packed by professional movers and placed in a climate-controlled storage unit.”

“The inventory and the keys are on that stake.”

Richard stared at the wooden stake.

He looked back at the empty space, then at me.

His eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of rage and disbelief.

“You can’t do this,” he hissed.

“This is my property.”

“No,” I said.

“The land belonged to my father, Arthur Miller.”

“He left it to me in a sole-name trust.”