They'd been using my lake as their primary selling point, inflating property values with my water while simultaneously trying to evict me for being an architectural eyesore.
Tuesday afternoon, Dylan and I mapped every square inch of my underwater empire using sonar equipment that looked like it belonged on alien spacecraft. The boundaries were ironclad.
I owned every foot of lake bottom, every inch of shoreline except for tiny slivers directly touching other properties.
"This is absolutely unprecedented," Dylan said, reviewing measurements that would rewrite our entire community's understanding of reality. "Your grandmother left you control over the one asset this whole neighborhood depends on for their lifestyle, their property values, their entire identity."
Wednesday brought Brena's final desperate escalation.
She'd scheduled an emergency community meeting for Friday night, but this time she'd invited County Sheriff Martinez to maintain order during discussions of criminal trespassing charges.
The woman was planning to have me arrested at my own kangaroo-court trial.
Her flyer, distributed like propaganda leaflets to every mailbox, read like a terrorist alert: "Final Community Meeting Regarding Dangerous Non-Compliance. Sheriff's Department Will Attend to Ensure Public Safety."
Thursday evening, I sat on my dock, watching sunset paint my lake in shades of gold and crimson, surrounded by boats anchored in my water while cars rested on my land.
Tomorrow night, Brena would attempt to destroy me in front of the entire community.
She had absolutely no idea I was about to reveal that I owned everything that made her neighborhood worth living in.
Friday morning arrived crackling with electricity, and I knew it was time to unleash the nuclear option.
Uncle Morris met me at his office at 7:00 a.m., the scent of fresh coffee mixing with decades of leather-bound legal victories as I spread my arsenal of documents across his battle-scarred mahogany desk.
"Sweet mother of God, Ezra," he breathed, his weathered hands trembling slightly as he absorbed the magnitude of what Grandmother had left me. His 40 years of property-law experience had never prepared him for anything this spectacular. "Your Opel wasn't just smart. She was playing interdimensional chess while everyone else was playing rock-paper-scissors."
We spent three hours dissecting every document like surgeons, Morris's excitement building with each revelation. His reading glasses fogged with anticipation as he cross-referenced boundary surveys with water rights, his calculator working overtime to quantify the scope of my inheritance.
But then he discovered something that made even his seasoned lawyer's composure shatter completely.
"Jesus Christ on a pogo stick," he whispered, pulling out receipts and financial records I hadn't even noticed in Grandmother's files. "Ezra, the HOA hasn't just been collecting boat-slip fees. They've been running a full-scale commercial marina operation on your water."
The numbers hit like a financial avalanche.
Twenty-three boat slips at $200 monthly for 36 months: $165,600. Annual lake access fees of $50 from all 47 households: $2,350 yearly. Summer day-use privileges at $25 per guest family: another $15,000 annually. Premium fishing licenses at $100 each: $4,700 more.