The heavy double doors of the ballroom remained wide open, framing the cold, sharp lights of the hotel lobby outside.

By the end of the month, the dismantling of the Keller estate was operating with the ruthless efficiency of a military logistical campaign.

Marcus Thorne’s office, in coordination with the federal bankruptcy court, began seizing every remaining asset belonging to Celina and Barron to satisfy the restitution orders and legal fees. Their suburban mansion in North Hills—a sprawling brick monstrosity financed by a web of second mortgages and questionable business loans—was slapped with a bright orange foreclosure notice.

I drove past it on a rainy Tuesday afternoon just to see.

The manicured lawns were already growing wild, dandelions poking through the pristine sod like tiny acts of botanical rebellion. A rusted "FOR SALE BY COURT ORDER" sign stood near the brick mailbox where Celina used to receive her charity gala invitations.

My phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth system.

“Captain Donnelly,” I answered, steering the truck onto the highway toward Fort Liberty.

“Adela, it’s Marcus Thorne.” The attorney’s voice sounded amused. “I thought you’d want an update on the liquidation auction.”

“Shoot.”

“Well, Celina’s prized collection of designer handbags, antique porcelain, and imported furniture went on the block this morning. The local liquidator cleared about two hundred thousand dollars after taxes and administrative fees.”

“Where is the money going?”

“Into a restricted escrow account,” Thorne replied. “Half of it covers the remaining legal fees and restitution to the bank. The other half is being transferred directly to your personal account as a court-ordered civil judgment for damages and legal compensation.”

I glanced in the rearview mirror as the North Hills neighborhood faded from view. “In short, they’re broke.”

“They aren't just broke, Adela. They’re legally destitute,” Thorne chuckled. “Celina’s society friends have all blocked her number, and Barron’s former business associates are treating him like radioactive waste. They’re looking at a minimum of seven to ten years in a federal penitentiary with zero chance of parole.”

“Good,” I said simply. “Send me the final paperwork when the escrow clears.”