Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a cold, thin whisper. “You have until tomorrow morning to sign the quitclaim deed, or I will have the sheriff escort you off the property.”
I looked at her face, completely smooth and devoid of any regret, and then I looked down at my gold wedding band.
The battle was no longer just about Gordon’s inheritance.
The white appraisal truck sat idling on the gravel driveway at nine o’clock, its diesel engine sending a low, rattling shudder through the damp autumn air.
I stood near the garage doors holding the handles of my three brown leather suitcases, the worn leather cold and stiff against my palms.
Sable stood near the passenger door of the truck, her red fingernails tapping a rapid, impatient beat against her designer leather purse.
“The appraiser needs full, uninterrupted access to the garage room and the main house today,” she said, her voice high and sharp.
“We are still waiting on the formal probate court’s decision, Sable,” I said, keeping my voice quiet and steady.
