Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
I reached down, my fingers touching the rough canvas first, then sliding the paper out of the pocket.
It was a receipt from the hardware store in town, dated today at twelve past one, just thirty minutes before I met Edwin.
The print was small, but the line items were clear.
Two blank brass key templates, five dollars each.
One labor charge for precision key duplication, ten dollars.
Total charge, twenty dollars and eighty cents, paid in cash.
I looked at the brass ring in my pocket, the three keys to my cabin doors resting against my thigh.
He had taken my keys while I was in the workshop this morning, driven into town, and made copies for himself.
I simply stared at the receipt, my thumb tracing the sharp edge of the paper.
The trapdoor in the floor creaked as Bula began her climb back up the ladder.
“Dad, is that you?” she called out from the kitchen entryway.
“Yes,” I said, my voice steady.
