It wasn’t complicated. I’m in cybersecurity. I understand systems and access and logs and chain of events. I understand that people believe they are safe until proof appears.
I called Tidemark, calmly, and confirmed what I already suspected.
Yes, someone had requested access.
Yes, someone had been given the code.
No, they had not verified identity properly.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t threaten. I simply asked for the date and time of the request, the name of the employee who approved it, and the exact communication chain.
Then I called my lawyer.
Then I waited.
I drove down the night before the reunion and checked the house myself. Everything was intact. Cameras were working. The security app showed clean logs. I changed the code remotely three hours before their arrival, setting it to my birthday, because I wanted the moment to be perfect.
Then I rented the car and parked where I am now, watching.
Twenty minutes.
That’s how long I decided to give them.
Long enough to get comfortable. Long enough to open bottles and sit on furniture. Long enough to leave undeniable evidence of trespass.
Because I wanted them to feel, for a moment, what it was like to have something and believe it was theirs.
And then lose it.
I glance at the dashboard clock.
3:16 p.m.
They’ve been inside fourteen minutes.
I roll my neck slowly, feeling sweat cling. My fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel, not nervous exactly, more like my body preparing.
My security app shows the living room feed in crisp high definition. I don’t even need it. I can see enough through the windows. But seeing them on camera feels like proof.
There’s my father sinking into the white linen sofa, a beer in hand, looking relieved. He thinks he has a week of luxury ahead of him without conflict.
Bridget is opening cabinets in the kitchen, laughing as she finds my crystal wine glasses. She holds one up to the light, admiring it, as if it’s just another thing the universe provided for her.
Kyle is sprawled on the sectional, already flipping through channels on the oversized television I installed. His feet are on the coffee table.
Linda is in the entryway, calling out instructions like she’s managing staff. “Be careful with that cooler. Don’t scratch the floor. This place is worth millions.”
I almost smile.
She’s right.
It’s worth 2.4 million dollars.
And she’s terrified of damaging it, not because she respects property, but because she wants to pretend she belongs in it.
The dashboard clock clicks forward.
3:22 p.m.
Twenty minutes.
It’s time.
I pick up my phone and dial Tidemark’s emergency line.
It rings once. Twice.
A woman answers, crisp and professional. “Tidemark Property Care, this is Sarah.”
“Hi, Sarah,” I say, voice steady. “This is Skyla Morales. I am the owner of the property at 42 Dune Grass Lane.”
Pause. Typing. “Yes, Ms. Morales. We have your file. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow for inspection. Is everything all right?”
“No,” I say. I watch my mother’s silhouette move across the balcony. “Everything is not all right. I am currently outside the property. There are unauthorized individuals inside my home. They used a code they should not have had access to and are occupying the premises.”
The tone shifts instantly. “Oh my goodness. Are you safe? Do you want us to call the police immediately?”
“Yes,” I say. “Call the sheriff’s department. Tell them we have a trespass situation. And send your on-call property manager. I will meet them at the property.”
“We’re on it,” Sarah says. “Are you safe where you are?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Please act quickly.”
I hang up.
I place the phone back gently, like I’m setting down something fragile.
Then I open the car door.
Heat rushes in, thick and wet. My skin prickles.
I step out and straighten my shoulders.
On the passenger seat, a folder waits. Inside are copies of the deed, the LLC formation documents, and printed screenshots of the messages banning me from the reunion.
My arsenal.
I pick it up.
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