Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
Its weight felt solid and cold against my palm, a quiet victory in a small wooden drawer.
Martha started the engine, the heater blowing warm air against my face as we pulled away from the curb.
“We will get it back,” Martha said. “The whole house.”
“Not today,” I said.
“Where are we going first?” she asked.
“Frank’s office,” I said. “He has the paperwork ready.”
Frank Higgins adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and laid a blue folder on the center of his mahogany desk.
The office smelled of old paper and leather, a quiet sanctuary from the noise of the Houston streets.
“The formal eviction notice was filed under an emergency clause,” Frank said, his legalistic cadence slow and measured. “Sable is claiming the estate requires immediate liquidation to cover outstanding debts.”
“She forged the signatures, Frank,” I said, sitting straight in the leather chair. “We have the proof from the bank.”
Frank shook his head, his hand resting on the blue folder.
“We cannot present the fraud evidence until the probate court hearing on November 14.”
“That is still three weeks away,” I said.
