My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notepad. He wrote down the time and the case number, then tore the slip of paper out and handed it to me.
“I will file the report as criminal mischief,” Walt said. “But if he has lawyers working on this, they are going to claim he has a right of access. You need to talk to Rachel.”
“She is waiting for me in town,” I said.
“Go see her,” Walt said. “And put a new lock on it. A stronger one if you can find it.”
I drove into Craig an hour later. The heater in my truck rattled against the dashboard, blowing dry, lukewarm air against my face.
The local attorney’s office was a small brick building two blocks south of the courthouse. Rachel Monroe had rented a small conference room in the back of the suite to handle my filings.
When I walked in, Rachel was sitting at a dark oak table covered in blue-backed legal documents. Her leather briefcase sat open on the chair next to her, and three different colored highlighters lay in a neat row beside her notepad.
