My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
I watched the screen as the driver’s side door of the sedan opened. A tall man in a heavy canvas coat stepped out into the snow, his hand going to his temple as he looked at the gate.
Arthur Carter had arrived.
A second figure, shorter and broader, stepped out from the passenger side. Evan Carter, my brother, stood by the rear bumper, his boots tapping against the frozen ground as he stared at the heavy chain.
From the utility van, a third man climbed down, carrying a heavy metal red toolbox in his right hand.
I held the phone steady, my thumb hovering over the green button on the bottom of the screen.
They thought I was in town. They thought they had three hours before anyone would check the road.
I tapped the phone screen to activate the audio recording system.
The locksmith knelt by the keypad with a small flashlight held between his teeth. He set his red toolbox on the frozen dirt, the latch clinking against the metal casing. Behind him, Arthur stood with his collar turned up against the wind, his hands deep in his coat pockets. Greg Vance, the local real estate agent who had listed the foreclosure, held a clipboard under his arm.
