They showed aerial footage of Ridgeline Heights, then my interview, intercut with shots of Grandpa's deed, the tax receipts, and Preston's smoking-gun email.
Patricia had obtained county permit records showing the Whitmores had fast-tracked approvals by donating $50,000 to the county commissioner's reelection fund.
The piece ended with me saying, "I'm not trying to hurt the families who bought these homes. They're victims, too. But if we let people like the Whitmores get away with this, what's the point of property rights? What's the point of laws?"
My phone exploded before the segment even finished.
Emma called, crying, proud tears this time.
Marcus texted, "You just became a folk hero."
Even my boss, Martin, sent an email.
"Come back to work Monday. We're proud to have you."
But the message that mattered came at 7:15 p.m. from a blocked number.
"You just made the biggest mistake of your life."
I forwarded it to Lydia.
She called back immediately.
"Don't go anywhere alone. Vary your routes. Keep your doors locked."
"You think they'd actually..."
"I think they're looking at 10 years in federal prison and financial ruin. People do stupid things when they're cornered."
She was right to worry.
February 4th, two days after the broadcast, I came home from grocery shopping to find my front door ajar.
I'd locked it. I was certain.
I stood on the porch, heart hammering, and called 911.
Deputy Torres arrived first this time with backup.
They cleared the house room by room.
Nothing was stolen, but someone had been inside.
On my kitchen table sat a single sheet of paper with five words printed in block letters.
"DROP IT OR LOSE EVERYTHING."
Torres bagged it as evidence.
"We'll check for prints, but if they were smart, they wore gloves."
"This is the Whitmores," I said. "They broke into my house."
"Can you prove that?"
I couldn't.
But two hours later, my neighbor Carol knocked on my door.
She was 70, a retired librarian who'd lived on my street for 40 years and noticed everything.
"Dakota, I saw a black Audi SUV parked across the street yesterday around noon. Man in a suit got out, walked up your driveway, then came back 10 minutes later. I thought he was a salesman."
"Did you see his face?"
"No, but I got the license plate. Seemed odd, so I wrote it down."
She handed me a sticky note with Colorado plate number KLM4892.
I gave it to Torres.
He ran it.
The vehicle was registered to Apex Investigations, Thomas Brennan's company.
"That's the PI who harassed my son," I said.