By early evening, the office whiteboard looked like a full-blown intelligence briefing. Lines connected names. Arrows pointed to possible strategies. Natalie’s name sat in the center like a spider in its web.
I stood back, arms crossed, scanning for any weak point I hadn’t already marked.
There it was.
Real-estate licensing.
One of her shell companies had filed an application for a property management license in South Carolina under a name I didn’t recognize. That license was still pending, which meant there was an opportunity to challenge it.
Boyd caught me smiling. “Found something?”
“Maybe. If I can get that application flagged before approval, it’ll choke off one of her revenue streams before it starts.”
“Need help?”
“I’ll handle it,” I said. “This one’s better coming directly from me.”
That night, I drafted a formal objection to the licensing board. Nothing emotional, just a clean, factual outline pointing to the inconsistencies we’d found—wrong addresses, mismatched names, missing disclosures. It was the kind of document they couldn’t ignore without looking incompetent.
When I hit send, I felt the same quiet satisfaction I’d get after a well-executed field op. No fireworks. No dramatic reveal. Just a precise move that would land exactly where it needed to.
Natalie wanted to play in my world.
She was about to learn that, in my world, precision beats noise every time.
The license objection was barely twenty-four hours old when the next move came, and it wasn’t subtle.
Boyd called at eight in the morning and didn’t waste time. “Get to the river house. Now.”
By the time I pulled up to the long gravel drive, there were two cars parked out front. One was Natalie’s dark blue sedan. The other was a silver SUV with out-of-state plates.
I parked off to the side and walked up the porch steps, noting that the front door was unlocked, a detail that irritated me more than it should have.
Inside, voices echoed from the living room.
Natalie was standing near the fireplace, gesturing at the wide windows and the view of the river. Across from her were a man and woman in business attire, nodding politely like they were being shown a property listing.
She saw me before I spoke. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she turned it back on full.
“Colleen, perfect timing,” she said. “I was just giving our guests a tour.”
“Our guests?” I asked.
The man stepped forward. “Daniel Moore, Moore and Sanderson Realty. We’ve been discussing possible event rentals for this location.”
I kept my tone even. “This property is not available for rent.”
Natalie’s eyes narrowed just enough for me to catch it. “We’re just exploring possibilities,” she said lightly.
I walked past her straight to the sideboard where Aunt Evelyn’s original property documents were stored. “Daniel, is it? Here’s a possibility. You leave now before I call the sheriff and report trespassing.”
The woman glanced at Daniel, clearly uncomfortable. “Maybe we should—”
She didn’t finish the sentence. They both left without another word.
When the door closed, Natalie dropped the pretense.
“You’re overreacting.”
“One, you’re in my house without permission, trying to pitch it like you own it,” I said. “That’s not overreacting. That’s enforcing boundaries.”
She folded her arms. “You’re going to regret shutting me out like this.”
I took a step closer, lowering my voice. “No, Natalie. You’re the one who’s going to regret thinking you could walk in here and make deals on something that isn’t yours.”
For a moment, we just stood there, both too stubborn to look away first.
She finally grabbed her bag from the couch and left, slamming the door behind her.
The house felt heavier once she was gone. I did a quick check of every room, making sure nothing had been disturbed. Everything was in place, but it didn’t matter. The intrusion was enough.
I locked the door, then the gate at the end of the drive, and made a mental note to have a security system installed before the week was over.
Back in my truck, I called Boyd. “She just tried to pitch the river house for events.”
He swore under his breath. “Want me to run interference with local realtors?”
“Do it,” I said. “And make sure they know anyone taking her seriously is risking more than wasted time.”
By the time I got back to the townhouse, Mark had already seen my missed call and was ringing me back. I told him about the encounter, and he promised to draft a formal letter barring Natalie from entering the river house property.
“This will be legally binding,” he said. “If she steps foot there again, it’s trespassing.”
“That’s exactly what I want,” I replied.
The rest of the day was a mix of tightening defenses and following up on our earlier investigation. Boyd confirmed he’d spoken to three real-estate offices. None of them would touch a listing tied to Clear Harbor Ventures.
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