My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
“The wind rattles the doors,” I said.
“Wind doesn’t turn a cylinder,” Walt said. He picked up his box of nails. “You have time for a cup of coffee?”
We walked over to the diner next door. The air inside was thick with the smell of grease, bacon, and burnt toast. A couple of local ranchers sat at the counter, talking in low voices about the price of hay. We took a booth by the front window, where the glass was fogged with condensation.
Walt sat opposite me, his heavy brown coat draped over the back of the vinyl seat. The waitress brought two mugs of black coffee and walked away without speaking. Walt took a slow sip, watching the steam rise.
“You looked serious in there,” Walt said.
I reached into my coat pocket and laid the yellow-stickered envelope on the table between us. I kept my hand flat over Evan’s name, showing only the bank’s return address and the yellow default label.
“How many foreclosures did the Craig bank handle in this valley last month, Walt?” I asked.
