My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
The local diner was quiet at one in the afternoon, the lunch rush having cleared out to leave only two utility workers at the counter and a lone trucker sleeping in the back booth. The air inside smelled of griddled onions, old grease, and stale coffee.
Rachel sat in the booth by the front window, her laptop open next to a half-empty mug of black tea. She did not look up until I slid into the vinyl seat across from her.
I pulled my checkbook from my jacket pocket, opened it on the laminate tabletop, and wrote out a check for four thousand two hundred and fifty dollars.
“This is the final balance for the retainer and the filing fees,” I said, sliding the blue paper across the sugar shaker.
Rachel picked up the check, examined the signature line, and placed it inside her leather planner. She clicked her silver pen three times.
“The title is clear now,” Rachel said. “The bank has already removed Evan’s name from the county registry. The property is entirely yours.”
