Brett went up the porch steps and put his key in the lock.
Nothing.
He frowned and tried again. Then the keypad. Then the side gate.
Tiffany said something I could not hear. My mother gestured sharply. Brett pounded on the door.
“Val!” he shouted. “Open up!”
He pounded again, harder this time.
Then, almost in unison, all four phones began vibrating.
The email had arrived or one of the BCC recipients had started forwarding it or both. You could watch the exact second comprehension moved through them. Brett’s shoulders locked. Tiffany’s mouth opened. My father looked from screen to house to screen. My mother’s whole face changed, not into sadness or shock but fury at being exposed.
The front door opened.
A security guard in black stepped out with a German Shepherd at his side.
“This property is owned by PrimeVest Realty,” he said in the implacable voice of a man who enjoyed rules. “You are trespassing. Remove yourselves and your belongings from the porch.”
My mother launched into immediate outrage. Even without sound, I knew the shape of the words. Misunderstanding. Family. Daughter. Illegal. How dare you.
The guard did not move.