My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
“They belong in the family archive,” he said, his gaze hardening. “If you have hidden them, you are making this probate process much more difficult than it needs to be.”
“I don’t have them,” I said.
“Then someone else does,” he said, staring at me with his cold, gray eyes. “And we are going to find out who.”
He shifted the car into reverse and backed down the gravel driveway, his tires crunching against the stones.
I ran up the porch steps, my chest tight.
I walked straight to the library and turned on the desk lamp.
The small brass drawer lock on the roll-top desk was bent outward, the dark wood around the keyhole splintered into pale, raw shards.
I did not touch the splintered wood. I took a photo of the damage with my phone, closed the study door, and locked it from the outside.
At nine o’clock the next morning, I stood in the carpeted lobby of the First National Bank on Third Street. The air was cool and smelled of industrial carpet cleaner.
