My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
We waited in the hallway, the sound of a distant typewriter echoing off the marble floor.
“If the bid failed, why is the bank still writing to Evan?” I asked, looking out the window at the snow drifting across the town square.
“Because the file is still open,” Rachel said. “The regional office has not ratified the foreclosure yet. They have until February fifteen.”
“That is three weeks,” I said.
“That is why your father is desperate,” Rachel said. “Once the deadline passes, the bank closes the file permanently. Any irregularities in the bidding process become part of the public record.”
The clerk returned, carrying a manila envelope with three metal clasps. Rachel took the envelope and walked to a wooden bench under the high window.
The hallway was quiet, the only sound the wind rattling the glass panes above our heads. Rachel opened the metal clasps and pulled out a stack of thirty pages, each stamped with the county seal in blue ink.
“Here is the auction bidding log from December eighteenth,” Rachel said, her finger moving down the columns of numbers.
