My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
“Morning, Olivia,” Walt said, his slow Western drawl steady and quiet.
He walked over to the gate, stood next to me, and tilted his hat back.
“Someone made short work of that,” he said, pointing his boot at the brass lock on the ground.
“It was intact yesterday at five,” I said. “I checked it before I went up to the house.”
Walt knelt in the snow, his knees cracking slightly in the cold. He did not touch the lock right away. He pulled a small digital camera from his coat pocket and took three pictures of the chain, the gate post, and the cut metal.
“You see those tire tracks?” I asked.
“I saw them when I pulled in,” Walt said. “They match a standard half-ton utility truck, maybe an SUV. Hard to say with the dusting we got last night.”
He picked up the cut padlock by the brass body, careful not to touch the sheared ends of the shackle. He dropped it into a clear plastic evidence bag from his pocket.
