My parents stood in the middle of Grandpa’s farm, told me they’d already sold the land to a developer, shoved “consent” papers at my chest, and sneered that I didn’t own a thing, but when I asked for the probate file number, my dad snapped, my mom smirked, and I drove straight to the county clerk instead

“Hi,” I said. “I need the deed history for the Rowan farm parcel and the probate file for my grandfather, Walter Rowan.”

Her eyes flicked over me once, assessing. Not rude. Just measuring the shape of the request.

“Address?”

I gave it.

She typed. The keyboard clicks were loud in the quiet room. The glow from her monitor reflected faintly in her lenses. She clicked again, scrolled, clicked again.

Then she paused.

Not the normal pause of someone searching.

The pause of someone seeing something she didn’t expect.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Natalie Rowan.”

“And your relationship to Walter Rowan?”

“Granddaughter.”

She nodded once, stood, and went to a back shelf of binders and file boxes.

When she came back, she didn’t bring a binder.

She brought a thin folder and set it on the counter with more care than the act required.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “The parcel shows a recent transfer.”

My pulse didn’t spike. It narrowed.

“Recorded?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Can you print the last two recorded instruments?” I said. “With the instrument numbers and the grantor information.”

She nodded and turned back to the printer station.