Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“It is a Class B felony in this state,” Vance said. “For both of you.”
My father’s face went gray, the color of wet concrete. He looked at me, his eyes wide with a sudden, sharp panic.
“Maria,” he whispered. “I didn’t know. I was just trying to help Chad.”
“Where is Chad, Dad?” I asked.
My father looked down at his calloused hands. “He’s at his apartment. He’s sorting things out.”
I knew what my father did not. Sarah had checked Chad’s apartment earlier that morning.
The parking space was empty, the trash cans were knocked over, and Chad’s silver lighter was gone from the kitchen counter.
Chad had already crossed the state line, leaving our father to hold the bag.
“He’s not at his apartment,” I said.
My father did not answer, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists.
“We have a problem, Gerald,” Miller said, leaning back in his chair.
“We can contest the registry,” Benson said, his oily warmth completely gone. “The filing was accepted by the clerk.”
