I looked at the paper. It was a promissory schedule for eighty-four thousand dollars, dated three weeks before Clara died, carrying Marcus’s signature as guarantor. But attached to the bottom was an addendum I had never seen: an assignment clause that transferred the note directly to Ardent Harbor Trust, giving the creditor the absolute right of immediate entry upon default.
And the signature of the creditor’s managing witness wasn't Julian Pike.
It was Officer Keith Miller.
The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in until the hunter green carpet and the polished walnut desk looked like a trap laid months before Clara took her last breath.
"You have twenty-four hours to sign the waiver of redemption," Marcus said, tapping a silver pen against the desk. "If you do, Julian will allow you thirty minutes with a deputy present to collect your clothes and Megan's personal belongings. If you don't, the sheriff executes the distress sale on Monday, and the entire balance—plus legal fees—comes out of Megan's survivor annuity."
I took two steps back toward the door, my chest tight, the envelope crushed in my fist. I looked at the man who had sat at my Thanksgiving table, the man who had promised his dying sister that her home would remain safe for her child.
"I’m not signing," I said.
Marcus didn't raise his voice. He reached for his telephone, his index finger resting on the speed dial. "Then you had better find a place for your truck, Nathan. Because by noon, Julian changes the exterior locks, and the county clerk closes at four."
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
I climbed back into the cab of my Ford, set the county recorder's notice on the passenger seat, and turned the ignition. The fuel needle hovered at a quarter tank. I had forty-two dollars in my wallet, eight hundred in checking, and less than four hours before the municipal desks locked their counters for the weekend filings.
First, I reached into the glove box and pulled out my mobile phone. I dialed my older sister, Evelyn. Megan had spent Monday night at her brick bungalow out near the high school after her junior-varsity track banquet.
The line rang twice before Evelyn picked up over the rattle of breakfast dishes. "Nathan? Megan’s still finishing her oatmeal. You dropping her gym bag off before second period?"
"Keep her there, Ev," I said. My voice was level, pitched low so it wouldn't carry through the truck's rusted floorboards. "Don't bring her to Henderson. Don't let her take the district bus home this afternoon, either."
The kitchen noises on the other end stopped. "Nathan, what happened to your voice? What’s going on at the house?"
"Marcus brought an eviction enforcement to my curb at seven," I said. "He had Keith Miller standing in my flowers and a stranger sitting in our kitchen with Megan’s mug. They have a paper that says the parcel belongs to a company called Ardent Harbor."
Evelyn sucked in a sharp, hissed breath. "Marcus? Nathan, Marcus swore at Clara’s service that the deed was clean. He told the whole family he filed the probate closure himself."
"He filed something else," I said. "He has an eighty-four-thousand-dollar promissory note with Miller’s name on the witness block. If Marcus calls you, do not confirm where Megan is. If a cruiser pulls into your drive, do not open the storm door without a county supervisor present. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you," she said, her tone hardening into the fierce protectiveness she had carried since our parents died. "She stays in the back room with me. But Nathan—you can't fight Keith Miller with a tire iron. The whole township council drinks coffee with his cousin."
"I’m not using a tire iron," I said. "I’m going to the vault."
I hung up before she could argue.
I put the Ford into gear and pulled away from the curb, heading west toward Elm Street.
First Valley Credit Union sat on the corner of Sixth, a squat brick branch with tinted plate glass and a single drive-through lane. The parking lot was empty except for two sedans belonging to the tellers. I parked in the visitor stall, tucked the recorder's notice inside my jacket, and pushed through the heavy glass entrance at precisely eight minutes past eight.
The lobby smelled of industrial carpet shampoo and ozone from the laser printers. Behind the high walnut counter, Mrs. Gable—a woman who had handled Clara’s payroll deposits when my wife taught fourth grade at the grammar school—looked up from her terminal. Her wire-rimmed glasses slipped down her nose as she took in my grease-stained canvas coat and uncombed hair.
"Nathaniel," she said, her voice dropping into the hushed register reserved for bereavement or delinquent balances. "We were just looking at your file. A formal inquiry came across the clearinghouse wire twenty minutes ago."
My ribs tightened. "What kind of inquiry, Martha?"