My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
“Why would Arthur put my address on Evan’s application?” I asked.
“He needed an address in the same county to qualify for the local agricultural bidding preference,” Rachel said. “And he needed to make sure you did not get the mail.”
“But the post office delivered it anyway,” I said.
“Because the local mail carrier knows your name, not the parcel number,” Rachel said. “The carrier saw Carter and drove it out to your road.”
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small silver thermos. She unscrewed the cap and poured a small cup of black coffee. She offered it to me first, and when I shook my head, she took a quiet sip.
“My first winter at Fort Hood, we had a major who tried to hide three missing diesel generators by transferring them to an inactive training unit,” Rachel said. “He thought the paperwork would get buried in the year-end transition. He was court-martialed in April.”
“Arthur is not a major,” I said.
“No,” Rachel said. “But the math is exactly the same.”
