Chapter 8 - The Ledger’s Other Names
Marlene kept one finger on the faded photocopy, as if the page might slide away from us.
“I can’t tell you what your grandfather meant by these notes,” she said. “But I can tell you what the current filings say.”
She opened a second folder. Alder Street appeared at the top of a form, followed by the same parcel number we’d seen on Grandpa’s page. The box marked “proposed buyer” held a company name I didn’t recognize.
“Rusk Development Group,” Marlene said. “Caleb Rusk’s company.”
Mom’s good hand curled around the strap of her sling. “They’re trying to buy my house?”
“They’ve submitted paperwork tied to the pending conveyance,” Marlene said carefully. “I can’t tell you from this filing alone whether the transfer is valid. But that’s the buyer they named.”
I leaned closer. The form referenced the old deed and a proposed closing date. There was no signature from Mom, no explanation of who had submitted the papers. Just a company name, printed in clean black type, where a person’s consent should have been.
I took out my phone.
“Can I photograph this?”
Marlene studied my face, then nodded. “Every page. Don’t take the originals.”
I photographed the filing, the parcel number, and the company name. Then I set the phone beside Grandpa’s photocopy. Daniel’s name sat in the margin beside four parcels. Rusk’s company sat on the filing for ours.
It wasn’t proof that Daniel had done anything. It wasn’t proof the filing was fraudulent. But the two names, separated by years and a thin layer of paper, seemed to look straight at each other.
Mom stared at the screen.
“Daniel told Britta the papers would show I kept money from you,” she said. “And now this company wants the house.”
I wanted to tell her we’d stop it. The words rose easily and died before I let them out.
“I don’t know what we can stop yet,” I said. “But we know who they say is buying it.”
Marlene closed the folder without locking it away. “There’s someone else you should talk to. Walter Bell’s former neighbor. She used to bring him mail when he was out of town.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“She moved across town. I have a number.” Marlene glanced at Mom. “I can call her, if you want.”
Mom nodded once.
Marlene put the call on speaker. A woman answered after four rings.
“Elaine Porter,” she said, sounding wary.
“This is Marlene at the title office. I’m here with Anna and her mother. We’re asking about Walter Bell.”
Silence hung on the line.
“What happened to Walter?” Elaine asked.
“We don’t know,” I said. “He objected to a deed on his property, and now he’s stopped answering calls.”
“That’s what happened before he stopped answering everyone.”
Mom shifted in her chair, her sling strap creaking against her blouse.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Elaine exhaled. “For weeks, Walter said men were coming by his house, claiming they were from the county. They asked him to confirm his parcel lines and how long he’d owned the place. He said one of them had a badge clipped to his belt.”
The room seemed to narrow around the phone.
“Did you see them?” I asked.
“Once. A dark car, two men. They didn’t come to my door, but Walter called me right after. He was angry. Said they’d asked questions no assessor needed to ask.”
“Did he report them?”
“He said he would. Then he got a letter about his deed. After that, he didn’t answer my calls. I went by. The curtains were shut, and his truck was gone.”
“Do you know where he is?” Mom asked.
“No. I don’t.” Elaine’s voice softened, but not enough to reassure us. “I’m not telling you he was taken. I’m telling you he was frightened, and then he stopped answering.”
The distinction mattered. So did the way she said frightened, like she still heard it in his voice.
“Would you be willing to tell that to someone who can investigate?” I asked.
“If someone independent asks me, yes. I’m not calling the department that let those men walk around with badges.”
Marlene and I looked at each other. Neither of us argued.
Before I could ask how to reach her, my phone vibrated against the table. Britta’s name appeared on the screen.
I snatched it up.
“Where are you?”
“Borrowed phone,” she whispered. There was a clatter behind her, then the hollow slam of a door. “Don’t call this number back.”
“Are you still at the diner?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Britta, is Daniel there?”
A pause. In it, I heard a man’s voice too muffled to make out.
“He came back,” she said. “He took my keys.”
My anger flashed so fast it almost felt like relief. “You let him?”
“No. He took them off the table while I was talking to the cook. He said if I’m not going with him, I’m not driving anywhere.”
Mom’s face had gone pale. She reached for the phone, then stopped herself, her sling holding her arm close.
“What does he want?” I asked.
“The ledger. He says Rusk needs it before they close. He says if I don’t find it, I’ll be the one who pays for everything.”
“Did you tell him you don’t know where it is?”
“I told him I didn’t know.” Her voice tightened. “He said he knows I’m lying.”
“Are you?”
Silence.
“Britta.”
“I don’t know where it is,” she said. “But I know why he wants it.”
A scraping sound moved across the phone, close and sudden.
“Tell me where you are. I’ll come get you.”
“No. He’s watching the lot. I’m in the back room, and I shouldn’t have called. I just—Anna, I thought you needed to know about Rusk.”
“I do. And I need to know whether you’re safe.”
“I’m trying to be.”
The line crackled. I stood so abruptly my chair struck the wall.
“Britta, get out through the back.”
“I can’t. He has my keys, and—”
May you like
A crash burst through the speaker, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
Then Daniel shouted her name.
