My parents were standing on the porch of my lake house with twenty guests when my mother looked straight into my security camera and said, "Claire, stop being ridiculous and open the door." They had driven there with coolers, grocery bags, children, and enough luggage for an entire weekend, even…

I did not call Kyle.

I set my phone face-down on the counter and looked at the ceiling of my Portland apartment for approximately thirty seconds.

Then I picked the phone back up and screenshotted his message, the timestamp, and the preview notification.

I emailed it to myself with the subject line: *Kyle — Friday, 10:52 a.m.*

Then I called the number on the Lakeview Asset Group website.

It rang four times and went to voicemail.

The recorded voice was professional and neutral.

It gave no name.

It said only: "You've reached Lakeview Asset Group.

Please leave a message or call back during business hours."

I hung up without leaving a message.

I spent the next two hours on my laptop.

Lakeview Asset Group had been registered with the Oregon Secretary of State fourteen months ago.

The registered agent was a law firm called Brandt & Colville, with an address on SW Morrison Street in Portland.

I looked up Brandt & Colville.

Small firm.

Two partners.

Estate planning, property law, business formation.

Their website listed client testimonials but no client names.

Standard.

I searched both partner names alongside my father's name.

Nothing direct.

I searched both names alongside Kyle's name.

Nothing.

Then I searched the law firm's address alongside Lakeview Asset Group and found a single result — a public notice filed with the county recorder's office eleven months ago.

It was a preliminary title inquiry on a parcel of land near Devils Lake.

The parcel number was listed.

I cross-referenced it against the county assessor's database.

The parcel was my property.

My hands were steady when I picked up the phone, which surprised me.

I had expected them to shake.

I called my attorney.

Her name was Diane Cho, and I had used her for the original property purchase and for a contract dispute at work two years ago.

She answered on the third ring.

"Diane," I said.

"I need to know what a preliminary title inquiry means when someone files it on a property they don't own."

A pause.

"It means someone is researching whether that property could be acquired.

Checking for liens, encumbrances, ownership disputes, anything that would complicate a purchase or a legal claim."

"And if the property owner never consented to that inquiry?"

"The inquiry itself is public record — anyone can file one.

But if it's connected to a pattern of behavior, like unauthorized entry, pressure to sell, misrepresentation of ownership interest —" She stopped.

"Claire, what's happened?"

I told her everything.

The group chat.

The locked-out weekend.

The deputy.

Margaret's folder.

The SUV.

The coffee cup.

Kyle's text.

The title inquiry.

All of it.

When I finished, Diane was quiet for a moment.

"Do you have any reason to believe your father has been attempting to position himself to acquire or claim partial interest in your property?"

"I have a photograph, a text message, a title inquiry, and a company registered two months after I told him the house wasn't available for family use."

"That's not proof of intent," she said.

"But it's enough to start building a record.

I want you to send me everything you just described.

Tonight if possible.

Don't contact your father or Kyle until we've spoken again."

"Kyle already texted me."

"Don't respond."

"I wasn't going to."

"Good." Another pause.

"Claire.

The title inquiry was filed eleven months ago.

Has your father said anything to you in the past year about the house — about its value, about selling it, about what would happen to it if something happened to you?"

I thought about Thanksgiving.

Dad had asked, almost casually, whether I had a will.

I had said yes.

He had asked who the beneficiary was.

I had said a friend.

He had gone quiet in the way he went quiet.

"Yes," I said.

"Send me that too, if you have anything in writing."

I didn't.

But I remembered it clearly enough that I opened a new document and typed out the conversation word for word while it was still sharp, with the date and location at the top.

I sent it to Diane as a contemporaneous note.

My phone buzzed again.

Not Kyle this time.

Dad.

The message was four words: *We need to talk.*

I forwarded it to Diane without opening a reply thread.

Then I set the phone down, walked to my kitchen window, and looked out at the street below.

A normal Saturday afternoon.

People walking dogs.

A kid on a bicycle.

A woman carrying groceries.

I thought about the six years of overtime.