Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
I looked at the paperwork on my lap, the certified bank logs and the forged deed transfer tucked safely inside.
I did not need my father’s permission, and I did not need Chad’s confession.
I closed my folder of evidence, ready to face the man who had stolen my life.
The mahogany table in Gerald Benson’s conference room was wide enough that we had to lean forward to hear each other over the hum of the air conditioner.
Captain Vance sat on my left, his dress uniform immaculate, his folders laid out in neat, parallel lines.
Across from us, Gerald Benson adjusted his gold wristwatch, his eyes tracking the manila envelope Vance had just laid on the wood.
My father sat two chairs down from Benson, his hands flat on his thighs, his calloused knuckles pale under the fluorescent lights.
“This is the certified wire history from the bank,” Vance said, tapping the top document.
Benson did not look at the paper. “There is nothing irregular about a cash transaction, Captain. It was a standard closing.”
