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

“I’m not signing anything on the hood of your truck,” I said. “If this is legitimate, it will survive daylight and paperwork.”

My father’s face flushed.

“Don’t do this, Natalie.”

He only used my full name when he wanted to sound bigger than he was.

“Do what?” I asked. “Ask for records?”

Evan Mercer cleared his throat, trying to keep himself outside the family part of the explosion.

“Ms. Rowan,” he said, “we have a signed purchase agreement. We’ve already scheduled a survey team. We’re closing soon.”

“Which title company?” I asked.

His mouth opened. Closed.

My mother’s eyes flicked once toward him. A tiny movement. But it was enough.

“That doesn’t matter,” my father snapped.

“It matters,” I said, still flat. “If the deed is already transferred, it’s recorded somewhere. If it isn’t recorded, it isn’t real.”

My mother laughed softly, the sound almost affectionate if you didn’t know her.

“Go play detective,” she said. “You’ll come back and apologize when you realize you’re not in charge.”

My father shoved the papers forward again.

“Sign and stop acting entitled.”

This time I took the stack.

Only because paper has fingerprints and ink has a timeline.