Chapter 11 - The Ghost in the Deed
I tilted my head, noticing the sudden tension in Reid's shoulders. "What do you mean? Did the developer have an issue with the survey?"
"No," Reid said, shaking his head. "The developer's payment cleared two weeks ago. The transaction is completely finished. But yesterday, the head registrar from the county called me. He said they were archiving the historical title transfers for our family's old parcel—the land our grandfather left to us."
Grant stepped forward. "Why would they look back that far?"
"Because Warren's fraud investigation triggered an audit of all real estate transactions connected to the Vance family over the past five years," Reid explained, opening the manila folder. "When the state investigators pulled the title history on my parcel to make sure Warren hadn't tampered with the borders, they found an unrecorded deed from twelve years ago."
Reid pulled out a yellowed, certified legal document and handed it to Grant and me.
My eyes scanned the header: *Deed of Trust and Covenant Agreement.*
"This document shows that our grandfather didn't own that land outright when he died," Reid said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Someone else co-signed the original deed thirty years ago. Someone who retained a fifty percent stake in the mineral rights and any future sale proceeds."
Grant looked at the signature line at the bottom of the page, and his breath hitched sharply in his throat.
"That's... that's impossible," Grant stammered, his fingers beginning to shake as he held the paper closer to his face. "This signature..."
"Whose signature is it, Grant?" I asked, my heart suddenly pounding against my ribs with an inexplicable, cold dread.
Grant looked up from the paper, his eyes wide with sheer disbelief, looking between me and my brother.
"It’s my father's signature," Grant whispered. "Julian Vance."
"Your father died seven years ago, Grant," I said, trying to make sense of the words. "He couldn't have..."
"No, Laurel, look at the date," Reid interrupted, pointing a calloused finger at the notary's verification stamp in the bottom right corner.
The ink was black, crisp, and undeniably fresh.
The notary stamp had been applied and signed just four days ago.
May you like
And beneath the signature of Julian Vance—a man who had supposedly been buried in the family crypt for nearly a decade—was a handwritten note scrawled in blue fountain pen across the margin:
*Tell Darlene the thirty thousand was only the beginning of what she owes me. I'm coming home.*
