“No. But when you combine forged documents, a notarized statement, an absentee property owner, and people who believe the owner is either incarcerated or dead…”
He stopped.
Sheriff Cole finished the sentence.
“You can create enough confusion to push transactions through.”
Dennis said nothing.
I stared at the house.
Four years ago, I thought my parents had stopped loving me.
That suddenly seemed almost merciful compared to the truth.
They had erased me.
First socially.
Then financially.
Then legally.
Movement behind the front curtains caught my eye.
Mom.
She stood inside the living room.
A phone pressed to her ear.
Her lips moved.
I couldn’t hear her.
But I could read them.
Two words.
Burn it.
I frowned.
Then she repeated herself.
“Burn it.”
I followed her gaze.
Not toward the house.
Toward the detached garage.
“Sheriff.”
He looked at me.
“My mother just told someone to burn the garage.”
Everyone turned.
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then gray smoke curled beneath the garage door.
Sheriff Cole ran.
So did I.
“Rachel, stay back!”
I ignored him.
Training took over.
Smoke meant movement.
Fire meant seconds mattered.
The side door burst open.
Dad stumbled out coughing.
A red gasoline container swung from his right hand.
Sheriff Cole hit him before he made it three steps.
They crashed into the grass.
The gas can rolled across the lawn.
Mom ran out screaming.
“Frank!”
Two deputies grabbed Dad.
Mom froze.
“You said you were going to destroy it!” she shouted.
Everyone heard her.
Dad looked at her like he wanted to kill her.
Then she realized what she had admitted.
Neighbors rushed for hoses.
The fire department arrived minutes later.
Fortunately, the flames were mostly contained inside a metal barrel near Dad’s workbench.
But what was burning inside it mattered far more than the garage.
Documents.
Photographs.
Bank records.
Letters.
