Chapter 3 - The Signature That Wasn’t Mine
Simone asked me to send every message Curtis had ever written about the cabin.
I forwarded emails, texts, repair invoices, and bank confirmations. Within two hours, her paralegal had pulled the county records and located the sale documents.
The paperwork was worse than I expected.
Curtis had submitted an affidavit claiming my mother owned Cedar Watch outright. He attached a power of attorney giving him authority to sign for her.
He also included a statement that I had abandoned any interest in the property and could not be reached because I was stationed overseas.
I was in Texas.
The file contained my signature beneath a consent form.
It was a convincing copy, except for one detail. I had signed the original source document with my middle initial. The forged consent omitted it.
“Where did he get the sample?” I asked.
“Possibly a benefits form, insurance document, or repair authorization,” Simone said. “We will find out.”
According to my father’s sealed survey, the trust owned one hundred and forty-seven acres.
The missing fifty-five acres included the only reliable access road to the upper ridge and the legal water rights to the creek. Without them, the developer’s project could not receive its planned permits.
Simone spoke quickly.
“Your father recorded the trust and the original parcel. The expanded survey was later attached under a separate instrument. The title search should have found both. Either someone was careless or someone was encouraged not to look closely.”
“What happens now?”
“We file an emergency notice, freeze the escrow proceeds, notify the county, and seek an injunction before demolition begins.”
“Breaking ground is Friday.”
“Then we move today.”
He contacted me again that afternoon.
At 3:11, he sent a photo of Avery holding two airline tickets. The message beneath it read: Family sacrifices create family memories.
At 3:18, my mother wrote: Please do not embarrass us in front of the developer.
At 3:24, Curtis sent a photograph of my father’s rocking chair with a yellow auction tag tied to one arm.
Starting bid: twenty dollars.
I stared at that image until the anger became useful.
Then I called our former neighbor, Walter Boone.
Walter had lived across the creek since before I was born. He was seventy now, broad-shouldered and quiet, with a voice like gravel under tires.
“They brought trucks Tuesday,” he said. “Cleared out the workshop. Hauled boxes to the auction barn in town. Your mother wouldn’t look at me.”
“Did you see Dad’s flag case?”
“I saw Curtis carry it to his SUV.”
My throat tightened.
Walter continued.
“I also saw something he didn’t know I saw. He met the title broker behind the equipment shed. Handed him an envelope.”
“Money?”
“Couldn’t tell. But the broker left smiling.”
“Do you have cameras?”
Walter was silent for a moment.
“Your father helped me install them after someone stole fuel from my barn. One points toward your gate.”
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“Please save everything from the last month.”
“Already copied it.”
