I set a small, discreet security camera in the living room, pointing toward the front door.
Legal—on my own property.
Then I put together a file.
A neat, professional file.
Inside:
A certified copy of the deed.
A copy of the final closed probate order.
Signed, notarized copies of the waivers Andrew and Margaret had signed, disavowing all interest in the estate.
Final paid-in-full statements from every creditor, bank, and lienholder.
Mike’s printed report on Arthur Peters.
A crisp new No Trespassing sign, not posted yet.
The fever was gone.
The fear was gone.
I was an appraiser, and I had appraised the situation.
The value of their claim was zero.
Friday came and went.
I didn’t hear a peep.
They were letting me stew.
They thought I was panicking about their deadline.
I spent the day drinking tea and calmly packing a small overnight bag—just in case.
Not because I thought I’d have to leave.
Because I knew that after Saturday, I’d want a break.
I’d go to a spa.
I’d earned it.
Friday evening, I sat on my porch watching the sunset paint the fields gold and purple when my phone rang.
Andrew.
“Well,”
he barked.
“No hello?”
I asked calmly.
“Don’t play dumb. Did your lawyer look at the papers?”
“I’m afraid I was too sick to get them, Andrew. You never actually gave them to me. Remember? You just waved them in my face.”
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
ADVERTISEMENT
