My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
Arthur sat at the end of the long oak table in the small conference room off the main hall, his large frame hunched forward as he stared at the four-page restitution agreement. His fingers were splayed flat on the polished wood, his left hand rubbing his temple in a slow, rhythmic circle.
Rachel Monroe sat opposite him, her leather briefcase open on the chair beside her. She clicked her silver pen three times.
“The figures are non-negotiable,” Rachel said, her voice cutting through the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights with military precision. “Thirty thousand dollars returned to the trust by Friday at noon, or the sheriff proceeds with the grand larceny filing.”
Arthur did not look up, but his jaw tightened. He reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out a thick, blue-backed document, and slid it across the table toward me.
“You sign the partition deed,” Arthur barked, though the old boom in his voice was gone, replaced by a dry rasp. “We split the acreage down the creek bed. Evan gets the eastern pasture, and you keep the house and the well.”
