When They Stole My Home, I Called His Gang

Chapter 2

At seven the next morning, I told Mom I had graduation paperwork to turn in and rode my bike downtown.

The county records office opened at nine.

I was the first person there.

The woman behind the counter spent ten minutes typing before turning the monitor toward me.

“This property was transferred to Rose Mason through irrevocable gift conveyance in April, ten years ago.”

I gripped the edge of the counter.

“There’s also a stipulation attached: before the beneficiary turns eighteen, no party may sell, mortgage, or otherwise dispose of the property. Oversight authority—Blackwater Legal Trust.”

“Did anyone ever try?”

She typed a few more keys and raised an eyebrow.

“Seven years ago, a Deborah Brandt filed a petition as legal guardian requesting authorization to sell the property for ‘the benefit of the minor.’”

“And?”

“Denied. The trust filed a formal objection.” She paused. “This Brandt woman related to you?”

“Print me a certified copy. Every page.”

While stamping the papers, she glanced at me again.

“Kid, whoever drafted this deed covered every angle.” She slid the folder over. “Whoever signed it loved you very much.”

I didn’t answer.

Something was lodged in my throat too deep to swallow.

The embossed seal on the folder felt cold under my fingers.

Outside, the sun was blinding.

Seven years ago.

I was eleven, sleeping in a converted garage room and washing dishes behind a diner just to save lunch money.

And she was in court trying to sell my land.

My phone buzzed.

Mom.

“Rose, Saturday’s appointment at the law office is at ten sharp. Don’t be late.”

“Okay.”

“That’s my good girl.” Her voice sounded almost cheerful. “I’ll make roast chicken tonight.”

I hung up and felt my stomach twist.

First roast chicken in eighteen years.

Wonder if it’s worth 1.2 million dollars.

On the ride home, I slowed in front of the repair shop.

The garage door was open.

Victor’s pickup sat outside next to a black SUV with RIDGELINE DEVELOPMENT printed on the door.

I walked my bike quietly along the wall.

A guy in a suit hammered survey stakes into the dirt while Victor stood nearby with his hands on his hips.

“…Told you already, Whitman, stop lowballing me on the one-two offer. Title’ll be clean by Saturday. Just need the girl to sign.”

The man in the suit smiled.

“Records show the owner’s still a minor?”

“She turns eighteen Saturday.” Victor crushed his cigarette beneath his boot. “Sweet little thing. Tell her where to sign, she signs.”

“Heard the original owner skipped town with club money. Doesn’t sound like he left much of a reputation behind.”

Victor snorted.

“Deadbeats don’t get a say in what the living sell.”

I backed against the wall behind the garage, hot sheet metal burning through my shirt.

Inside, Victor’s laughter mixed with the scream of a power drill.

That was my father’s shop.

My father’s tools.

My father’s lift.

Walls he built one brick at a time.

The note in my pocket had gone soft from sweat.

Find the Iron Ravens.

Dad—

I’m going.