Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“The deed was transferred on September tenth,” she replied, her voice flat. “Our records show the transaction is complete.”
I watched her hand rest on the black telephone receiver, her red fingernails tapping against the plastic.
“Tell Mr. Benson I will be back with the county sheriff,” I said.
She did not answer, turning her attention back to her computer screen as I walked out of the lobby.
Sarah, my childhood friend, met me at the hotel room after her shift at the clinic ended. She carried a legal pad and a blue folder containing the printouts from the county deed registry. We spread the papers across the small laminated desk under the window, the yellow light of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the carpet.
“Emily paid eighty-eight thousand,” I said, pointing to the image of the closing disclosure on my phone screen.
Sarah compared the phone screen with the certified deed from the county records office.
“But the county document says sixty-four thousand,” Sarah said, tracing the line with her pen. “The state tax transfer was paid on that amount.”
