My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
The sound of the stamp hitting the paper was loud in the empty lobby, a rhythmic thud that sounded like a gavel.
“Here is your receipt,” Martha said, sliding the heavy folders across the high counter. “And your originals.”
I tucked the certified copies into my briefcase, ensuring the zippers were completely closed before I stepped back out into the dry heat.
The lobby of the Riverside police station on Orange Street was crowded with people waiting in plastic chairs under a buzzing fluorescent light. A clock on the wall showed ten past three.
I waited forty-two minutes before my name was called by a desk officer behind a partition of thick glass. Officer Miller had a tired face and a blue uniform that looked slightly too large for his shoulders.
“I need to file a report for identity theft and document forgery,” I said, sliding my driver’s license through the small slot at the bottom of the glass.
“Do you know the person who did it?” he asked, his fingers hovering over his keyboard.
“Yes,” I said. “My sister, Ashley Carter.”
