My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
“I did what I had to do to keep the name on the land,” Arthur said, his voice cracking for the first time. “You would have lost everything.”
“You lost it for him,” I said. “The bank is processing the fraud claim tomorrow morning.”
Rachel handed a second set of documents to Walt Hensley. The sheriff adjusted his glasses, reading the pages under his cabin light.
“This looks like grand larceny, Arthur,” Walt said, his slow drawl sounding heavier than usual. “And the notary signature on this power of attorney is from a clerk who retired three years ago.”
Arthur did not answer. He stood in the white glare of the headlights, his hands still in his pockets, staring in silence at the forgery documentation in the sheriff’s hand.
The county courthouse lobby smelled of floor wax, wet wool, and the faint, sweet scent of industrial pine cleaner. It was ten o’clock on the morning of February twelve, and the high arched windows near the ceiling let in a flat, gray winter light that did nothing to warm the stone floor.
