The first deputy stepped out slowly, one hand resting near his belt, his eyes moving from my family to me. “Who called this in?” he asked.
“I did,” I said, raising my phone. “And so did my attorney. This is my property, and they refused to leave after written notice.”
Dad barked a laugh. “She’s lying. She’s unstable. Ask anyone in town. She’s been on drugs for years.”
I felt the old shame rise, hot and familiar, but I kept my voice steady. “I’ve been sober for seven years. And being in recovery doesn’t make forged documents legal.”
The second deputy took the deed from me, compared it with the paperwork my attorney had emailed to the sheriff’s office, and nodded once. “This deed lists Claire Bennett as the sole owner.”
Mom’s mouth fell open like she had never seen my name before. Ashley stepped backward, bumping into a porch chair. “Grandma promised me,” she whispered.
“No,” I said. “Grandma promised you nothing. She let you visit because she loved you. That’s different from giving you a house.”
A black sedan pulled in behind the sheriff’s cars. My attorney, Melissa Grant, got out carrying a folder so thick it looked like a phone book. She walked straight to the deputies and introduced herself.
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