The first thing Isabella Hail heard was the sound of destruction.
Power tools screamed through the quiet Michigan afternoon. Engines rumbled in the driveway. Men shouted instructions to one another as pieces of broken wood were carried across the lawn.
Then Isabella turned into her driveway and stopped cold.
A large yellow construction dumpster had been placed directly on top of the flower bed she had planted herself. Workers were carrying shattered glass away from the sunroom. A blue tarp covered part of the east wall, where a section had already been torn apart.
For several seconds, Isabella simply stared.
This was her lake house.
Her property.
Her money.
And none of this was supposed to be happening.
Isabella was thirty-two years old, and the lake house was one of the first things in her life that belonged completely to her.
Not to her parents.
Not to her younger brother.
Not to the family.
To her.
She had purchased the $240,000 Michigan bungalow three years earlier, after turning her small marketing business from a laptop operation into a successful company. The house had never been perfect. The paint was peeling in places, the porch sagged slightly, and the sunroom had a leak that she had planned to repair properly.
