“So let’s be transparent now.”
I turned to the two movers, who looked like they wanted to be anywhere else on earth.
“Gentlemen, I am Hannah Gable. The sole legal owner of this property.”
I handed them a copy of the front page of the deed.
“That is my name.”
“Here is the closed probate order showing all assets transferred to me.”
“And here,”
I handed them another page,
“is the report on Arthur Peters—the man who created those fake papers your client is holding.”
The lead mover read.
His eyes widened.
He looked at the disbarment. The fraud.
Then he looked at Andrew.
“Buddy,”
he said,
“we’re not doing this.”
“What—you have to!”
Andrew yelled.
“I paid the deposit.”
“And you can have it back,”
the mover said, already walking toward the truck.
“We’re not getting involved in this.”
His partner followed.
“You can’t go!”
Andrew screamed, running after them.
“I’ll sue you!”
“Go ahead!”
the mover shouted back.
“But we’re calling our boss, and he’s calling the cops.”
“No need,”
David Chen called out, pulling out his phone.
“They’re already here.”
On cue, the police cruiser—silent until now—pulled up the long driveway and flashed its lights.
Blue and red, silent in the bright morning.
The final blow.
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