His second was assuming I was equally careless.
Two years later, Daniel’s consulting company collapsed after losing its biggest client.
The cars disappeared.
The expensive apartment followed.
Then Vanessa suddenly became interested in my property.
Especially the lake house.
She claimed Daniel’s family had contributed to renovations during our marriage, giving him an ownership interest.
The claim was nonsense.
But Vanessa had something more dangerous than facts.
Confidence.
“You’ve been living here long enough,” she said at my door that afternoon.
Her attorney, a thin man named Howard Blake, opened a leather folder.
“We believe title was transferred improperly during the divorce,” he said.
I almost laughed.
“Improperly?”
Vanessa smiled.
“Daniel was under emotional pressure.”
“Daniel had independent counsel.”
“He was manipulated.”
I leaned against the doorway.
“By whom?”
She looked at me as if it were obvious.
“You.”
Then a black sedan stopped behind them.
My attorney, Rachel Morgan, stepped out carrying a thick blue binder.
Vanessa’s smile faded slightly.
Rachel walked up the path.
“Sorry I’m late.”
I looked at Vanessa.
“You weren’t.”
Rachel raised the binder.
Thirty-one pages.
Not thirty.
Not thirty-two.
Thirty-one pages containing deeds, sworn statements, bank records, renovation invoices, settlement exhibits, and one document Daniel apparently hoped nobody would find.
Vanessa glanced at it.
“What is that?”
Rachel smiled.
“The reason you should have done more research before threatening my client.”
For the first time, Vanessa’s confidence slipped.
We moved inside.
Not because Vanessa deserved hospitality.
I wanted her seated when Rachel opened the binder.
Howard adjusted his tie.
“Let’s keep this professional.”
Rachel sat across from him.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Vanessa crossed her legs.
“This house belonged to Daniel’s family before the divorce.”
“No,” I said.
She rolled her eyes.
“Daniel told me otherwise.”
Rachel opened page three.
“The property was purchased in 2014.”
