Chapter 14 - The Summit Meeting
By the end of the week, the weather broke into a brilliant, cloudless alpine blue that made the snow-covered peaks of the San Juans look like jagged diamonds against the sky. Down in Ouray, the hot springs were steaming in the crisp winter air, and the local coffee shop was buzzing with locals talking about the massive federal investigation unfolding two hundred miles north in Denver. Nobody in Hinsdale County knew who I was, and that was precisely how I liked it. I was just the quiet woman who owned the 1948 A-frame up on Red Mountain Pass—the one who shoveled her own roof and paid her property taxes six months in advance.
Around mid-morning, as I was sitting at the oak table reviewing a complex commercial casualty claim for my insurance firm via satellite internet, a heavy knock echoed against the front door. It wasn't the tentative rap of a process server or the desperate pounding of a family member in crisis. It was a rhythmic, authoritative knock belonging to someone used to being answered immediately.
I stood up, walked to the entryway, and unlatched the deadbolt.
Standing on my cedar porch, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat that looked entirely out of place in the high-altitude wilderness, was Marcus Vance, the court-appointed bankruptcy receiver. But he wasn't alone. Standing beside him, shivering visibly despite her thick down jacket, was a woman who looked like she had aged ten years in the span of a single month.
It was Olivia.
Her blonde hair was unwashed and pulled back into a messy bun, devoid of the expensive salon styling she used to flaunt on social media. Her face was pale, her cheeks chapped by the mountain wind, and her eyes held a desperate, manic edge that made her look entirely unhinged.
"Becca," Olivia gasped, stepping forward as if she intended to push past me into the cabin.
I didn't move an inch. I braced my hand against the doorframe, my eyes locked on hers with absolute, unyielding coldness. Marcus Vance stood a step behind her, holding a slim leather briefcase and wearing an expression of neutral, professional detachment.
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"You can't come in here, Olivia," I said, my voice flat and emotionless.
"Becca, please!" Olivia sobbed, her voice breaking into a shrill, theatrical plea. "You have to listen to me! Mr. Vance says the court is seizing everything—our house in Cherry Hills, our cars, our bank accounts, even my jewelry! We have nothing left! This cabin is the only asset left in our family trust that hasn't been liquidated yet. If you just sign the release papers and let the receiver reallocate it to Jason’s settlement fund, the federal prosecutor agreed to drop the enhanced fraud charges against him!"
