My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
I waited in line at the property records counter behind a man in a dusty flannel shirt who was arguing about a fence easement. My watch read two-fifteen when the clerk finally beckoned me forward with a polite nod.
“I need to perform a property search,” I said, placing my driver’s license on the laminate counter. “For nine hundred and twelve Elm Street.”
The clerk, a middle-aged woman named Martha with silver-framed reading glasses and a small silver cross necklace, typed the address into her terminal. The rapid, rhythmic click of her keys was the only sound between us for several long seconds.
“Are you the owner of record?” she asked, looking up from her screen.
“Yes,” I said. “Emily Carter.”
She squinted at the monitor, her forehead furrowing as she scrolled down a long list of digital entries.
“There was a filing yesterday afternoon,” Martha said, her voice dropping to a professional murmur as she leaned closer to the glass. “A quitclaim deed was recorded at two-fifteen.”
“Can I see the scanned document?” I asked, my fingers tightening against the edge of the laminate counter.
