The first was a brand-new, six-figure black Range Rover Autobiography bearing vanity plates: **K-CORP 1**.
The second and third were black Lincoln Town Cars carrying four senior partners from the Philadelphia corporate defense firm of **Roth, Caldwell & Sterling**.
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Stepping out of the Range Rover, wearing a camel-hair overcoat with a sheared-mink collar, Italian leather dress shoes, and gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses, was **Garrison Vance**.
At forty-eight, Garrison looked like an advertisement for predatory Pennsylvania private equity: perfectly tanned skin despite the winter frost, teeth whitened to blinding porcelain, and an arrogant, dismissive smirk that had spent a decade treating state labor inspectors like uninvited dinner guests.
Garrison marched up the flagstone porch steps of his uncle’s estate, his three corporate attorneys trailing behind him with heavy leather litigation cases.
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He didn’t knock.
He seized the heavy bronze door handle, pushed the three-inch white oak door open, and strode into the great hall of Hawthorn Ridge as if he already owned the title deeds.
