Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“Your notary logbook has no record of my client, which means this deed is a total fabrication,” I said, repeating the legal reality Vance had outlined for me.
The room went completely still, except for the distant sound of traffic on the street below.
“Let me see that page,” Miller said, leaning across the table.
The notary pointed to the sequential numbers on the lined paper. “There is no entry for August twelfth under that transaction number. The sequence jumps from eleven to thirteen.”
“The date was copied from an old log entry from three years ago,” Vance said. “A simple cut-and-paste job, digitized and printed onto the new form.”
My father looked at Benson, his defensive growl rising. “You said the paperwork was clean. You said you handled the notary.”
Benson did not look at him. He was watching his lawyer, who was now whispering in his ear.
“Dad,” I said, leaning toward my father. “Did you sign my name?”
“I didn’t sign nothing,” my father said, his voice cracking. “Gerald said we needed to update the dates to clear the title because the old one was too old. He said it was legal.”
