My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
I stood in the quiet lobby, the smell of old radiator steam filling the small space. My father’s signature on the bank freeze document had effectively cut off my access to my own money, leaving me with no way to secure the apartment if I had to leave Elm Street.
“I will have to call you back,” I said.
I walked out to my car and sat in the driver’s seat, watching the streetlights flicker on along Oak Avenue. I pulled out my phone and dialed Richard Morrison’s office number, waiting through four long rings before the call went to his automated voicemail.
I did not leave a message. I drove back to the craftsman house, the dark silhouette of the roofline appearing against the cold gray evening sky as I pulled into the driveway.
I walked into the kitchen and set my keys on the counter next to the printed sheet of paper Mrs. Vance had given me at the bank. The silver-plated kettle sat cold and empty on the stove, its polished surface reflecting the dim light of the overhead fixture.
