My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
I leaned over her shoulder, watching her pen move.
“Evan Carter is listed as the bidder,” I said, pointing to the name printed in block letters.
“Look at the authorization line,” Rachel said, pointing to the bottom of the page.
The document had three signature blocks for the transfer of the funds from the bidding trust. Two of the blocks had been signed by the bank’s trust officer and the branch manager. The third block, labeled as the depositor’s personal authorization, was completely empty.
“The bank manager let the bid go through without the third signature,” Rachel said.
“Is that legal?” I asked.
Rachel pointed to the blank signature line on the certified copy.
The blank space on the paper stayed in my mind for three days while the snow turned to gray slush along the roads.
On January twenty-five, I drove into town to escape the quiet of the empty ranch house. The bakery on Main Street was warm, smelling of yeast and chicory coffee.
I took a booth in the corner, far from the drafty door, and watched the pickup trucks bounce over the frozen ruts outside.
