Chapter 7 - The Paper Trail
The smell of dust and old paper hung thick in the small mezzanine room.
"What second mortgage?" I demanded, stepping past Walter into the office. "This building was paid off before Grandma Helen died. There were no liens."
Julian let out a frantic, humorless laugh, wiping a drop of sweat from his chin with the sleeve of his fleece. "There weren't! Until Tom took out a commercial equity line to finance Vanessa’s European influencer trip and his own shares in the craft brewery on 8th Street! My dad signed as guarantor because Tom promised him thirty percent of the bakery's net profits once they forced you to sign the permanent surrender waiver!"
"The waiver," I whispered.
I looked at the oak desk. Sitting next to the laptop was a crisp, legal-sized document bound in blue cardstock.
IRREVOCABLE QUITCLAIM DEED AND WAIVER OF BENEFICIAL INTEREST.
The signature line at the bottom was already filled in with my name in neat, flowing cursive.
A forgery. Dated yesterday.
"They were going to file this with the county clerk on Monday morning," I said, turning the blue folder in my hands. "They were going to record it before I even knew the trust existed."
Julian reached down toward his leather backpack. "Roxanne, please. Just let me take the cashier's checks. My dad has thirty-five thousand dollars tied up in the escrow reserve. If that money disappears into probate litigation, we're bankrupt by Christmas."
Walter stepped forward, his boot coming down firmly on the strap of the backpack.
"Leave the bag, Julian," Walter said, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register. "Or I call Sheriff Daniels on my cell right now and tell him my grandson is currently committing commercial burglary on private property."
Julian looked at Walter’s face, then at the heavy rolling pin in his grandfather’s hand. He swallowed hard, raised both hands in the air, and slowly backed toward the spiral stairs.
"Uncle Tom won't let this go, Roxanne," Julian muttered as he reached the landing. "He’s got the whole family convinced you’re having a nervous breakdown. He already called Aunt Sarah and told her you threatened Mom with a carving knife at dinner."
"Get out," I said.
Julian turned and scrambled down the stairs, his sneakers squeaking on the steel steps before the rear exit door slammed shut below.
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