Then, cautiously, “Your grandfather’s property.”
My grip tightened on the counter. My grandfather had left seventy acres outside Tulsa, land everyone insisted had been sold years ago to cover medical bills. I’d heard that story so often I could recite it word for word.
“You told me there was nothing left,” I said.
“I said I’d explain. But if this isn’t signed in the next three hours, everything falls apart.”
“Then explain.”
Another pause. Longer. Heavier.
Finally, almost under his breath, he said, “Because if you don’t sign, they’ll find out it was never legally mine to sell.”
Before I could respond, someone in the background shouted, “Don’t tell her that—”
The call cut off.
