“We’ll argue later.”
Ruiz accessed the county property database.
Owner:
Duncan A. Vale.
Purchase date:
eleven years earlier.
No recorded transfer.
No foreclosure.
No HOA lien.
No possession order.
No Stonebridge Ridge interest.
Then Gareth Puit arrived.
His expression told Duncan exactly how much of the story Marissa had hidden from her own attorney.
Gareth took the document she called the possession order.
Read it.
His face went pale.
“This is not an order.”
Marissa crossed her arms.
“It contains the enforcement language.”
“It’s a draft notice.”
“It was finalized.”
“By whom?”
“The board.”
“That doesn’t make it a court order.”
Gareth flipped to the last page.
A judicial-style signature block appeared beneath a county case heading.
He stared.
“Where did this signature come from?”
Marissa said nothing.
“Marissa.”
Silence.
Gareth looked at Detective Ruiz.
“I need to be extremely clear. My office did not prepare this version.”
Ruiz took the document.
“Can you provide your original?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Within an hour.”
Marissa said:
“Gareth, think carefully.”
He looked at her.
“I am.”
That was the moment she lost her lawyer.
Gareth did not formally withdraw from representing the association immediately because procedural steps were required.
But before leaving the warehouse, he told Marissa:
“I will not represent you personally regarding today’s events.”
Her face hardened.
“You work for us.”
“I work for Stonebridge Ridge.”
“I am Stonebridge Ridge.”
“No.”
He let that word sit.
“You are its president.”
Ruiz searched only the areas necessary with consent and proper process.
Duncan accompanied her through his office.
Desk drawers open.
Files displaced.
Two external hard drives moved.
Cabinet lock damaged.
A personnel folder lay on the floor.
Business account documents were stacked on a table.
Nothing obvious appeared stolen.
That almost made it worse.
Someone had been searching.
“What would they want?” Ruiz asked.
“Road records.”
“Why?”
Duncan explained Meridian.
The access corridor.
Marissa’s purchase offer.
The sudden fines.
Ruiz stopped writing.
“How much is the development worth?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
“Hundreds of millions built out.”
“And access through your property?”
“Apparently important.”
Ruiz closed her notebook.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
That evening, Duncan went home.
He did not sleep.
At midnight, he sat at his kitchen table with printed screenshots surrounding him.
The zip-tie marks had darkened on his wrists.
He was angry now.
Not during the detention.
After.
That was common.
Control delayed emotion.