My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
Richard met me at the door of his private office, his gravelly voice warm as he ushered me inside. The room smelled of old leather and cedar wood, a comforting contrast to the cold glass and concrete of the county building.
“What is happening, Emily?” he asked, sitting behind his massive mahogany desk and tapping his pen rhythmically against a yellow legal pad.
I did not sit down in the green leather chair opposite him. Instead, I pulled the certified copy of the quitclaim deed from the manila envelope and laid it flat on his blotter.
“Ashley filed this yesterday,” I said.
Richard adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, leaning forward to study the document under his desk lamp. His rhythmic tapping stopped instantly, the black pen rolling to a halt against his notepad.
“This is a forgery,” he said, his voice flat and certain as he traced the signature with his index finger.
“She told me this morning that the house belongs to someone else now,” I said. “She told me I have to be out by Friday.”
