Inside were four folded pages. The first was indeed a printed Amtrak itinerary, but tucked directly behind it was the original pink carbon copy of a Spokane County Auditor’s expedited recording receipt. The document number was dated seventy-two hours ago. It listed my house—Parcel 35142, the two-story craftsman my father had helped me frame in 1981—under an application for Non-Probate Transfer on Death, coupled with an immediate Statutory Warranty Deed granting Marcus sole executive authority under the temporary conservatorship order.
Pinned to the back of the deed was a cashier's check stub from Inland Northwest Federal Credit Union.
My stomach dropped into a bottomless hollow. Marcus had not merely filed for custody; he had walked into the branch on Sprague Avenue using the emergency court order, emptied my liquid money-market balance—eighty-four thousand dollars earned over thirty-two years of climbing utility poles in freezing blizzards—and transferred the entirety into a newly created escrow account titled Vance Asset Management LLC. The memo line on the transfer slip was typed in neat bank courier print: Full liquidation of ward assets for residential placement expenses.
"Dennis," I said, keeping my fingers absolutely flat against the paper so he wouldn't see the tremble in my knuckles. "How much is Marcus paying your agency to ride down to Klamath with me?"
Dennis glanced out the window as the train cleared the Monroe Street overpass, the gray Spokane river foaming over the falls below us. "Agency gets eighteen hundred. I get my per diem and a return sleeper. It’s just transit work, Arthur. Don't take it personal."
"My son just sold my home out from under me," I said, sliding the pink county slip half an inch forward across the table. "He emptied my pension reserve yesterday morning. If I get off this train inside a locked facility in Klamath Falls, the thirty-day evaluation period runs out before I can petition the bench to contest the transfer. By the time I see a judge, the deed is recorded, the house is demolished for his commercial park, and my money is dispersed into an LLC I have no standing to audit."
Dennis looked down at the pink carbon sheet, then at the credit union liquidation slip. For three seconds, his bored, institutional expression flickered. His eyes tracked the notarized timestamp from the bank: yesterday, 9:14 AM.
"Look, Arthur," Dennis said, his voice dropping slightly, though he didn't pull his hands from his pockets. "I don't verify the dockets. The court clerk stamps the paper, my boss takes the dispatch, and I make sure the client arrives at intake without jumping off the platform. I can't let you off this train."
"I don't expect you to let me off," I whispered, feeling the cold steel of the train chassis vibrating through the soles of my shoes. "I expect you to answer one question. Does that transport contract give you authority to seize my personal property before we reach the facility gate?"
Dennis frowned, looking at my leather grip. "Company policy says no weapons, medication, or sharp objects in transit. Everything else stays with you until the intake nurse inventories your luggage."
I slid the credit union stub into my inside breast pocket, buttoned the heavy wool flap, and reached for the strap of my bag. Silence was not going to keep me out of Klamath Falls. Marcus had timed every step of this trap down to the minute the train pulled away from the Spokane river, but he had forgotten one basic rule I taught him when he was twelve years old: you never pull down a live line until you’ve verified the disconnect switch with your own eyes.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
"Dennis," I said, keeping my tone even and dry. "Who signed the intake acceptance form for High Desert?"
Dennis shifted his shoulders, clearly annoyed that I wasn't weeping or shouting. "Facility admissions director. Standard intake queue. Look, Arthur, I don't manage their medical desk."
"The court order you placed on that table," I pointed with my index finger, not moving an inch closer, "is an emergency temporary fiduciary petition under Washington state statute. It has an ink-stamped court seal from Spokane County, but it lacks the clerk's docketed signature on the second page."
Dennis blinked, his eyes darting down to the laminated clipboard resting on the formica table between us.
"I spent thirty-two years reviewing municipal utility easements and county right-of-way certifications before any crew under my charge put a spade into the earth," I told him quietly. "An ex parte temporary order requires the judicial officer's signature on the primary decree and the presiding clerk's certifying seal on the schedule of assets. Look at the lower right corner of exhibit B."