My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a white sheet with a blue court seal. She did not hand it to him. She held it just far enough across the desk that he could read the stamp.
Vance looked at the seal, then at me. His eyes were small behind his glasses, surrounded by deep, papery wrinkles.
“This is a family matter, Olivia,” Vance said. “Your father has been a customer here since nineteen-eighty. We have always handled his business with discretion.”
“My father does not own my trust account,” I said.
“He is the named custodian,” Vance said.
“Only until her twenty-fifth birthday,” Rachel said. “That milestone passed nine years ago. The custody agreement expired, and the funds became her sole property.”
Vance looked down at the blue folder. He tapped his fingers against the laminate desk, a slow, rhythmic sound that reminded me of my brother Evan’s boots.
“We sent the notices to the address on file,” Vance said.
“You sent them to my father’s house in Kiowa,” I said. “Even though my mailing address was updated in October.”
