Cassidy sat silently in the crowded dining hall of the Millfield Community Center as her ex-mother-in-law dumped a bucket of ice-cold floor wash over her head.
The council meeting was adjourned until morning, a chaotic end to what should have been a routine session. The auditorium emptied slowly, residents still whispering, their phones clutched in their hands.
I stayed behind, watching the last few people leave. It was 9:15 PM, and the Millfield Town Hall was usually locked up tight by now.
But as I stepped out into the crisp night air, I saw a familiar sleek black sedan pull into the parking lot. Lyle Bramford.
He got out of his car, his expensive suit jacket pulled tight against the chill. He wasn’t heading for his office. He walked directly to the side entrance of the town hall, the one that led to the basement document room where original property filings were kept.
My heart pounded. He was going to try and remove the original 2018 debt receipt filings. The proof of the repaid $85,000 loan, my grandfather’s carbon copy. He must have known I had it, or suspected I might find it.
I quickened my pace, reaching the basement door just as he was fumbling with a set of keys. He didn’t see me until I was standing directly in the hallway, blocking the entrance with my presence.
“Lyle,” I said, my voice quiet, but firm.
He whirled around, startled. His face, usually so smooth, contorted into a mask of frustration and anger. “Cassidy,” he hissed. “What are you doing here?”
“The records office is closed, Lyle,” I replied, crossing my arms. “And I don’t think you have a legitimate reason to be in there at this hour.”
He took a step towards me, his eyes narrowed. “Get out of my way.”
“No,” I said, holding my ground. “Not until Sheriff Kincaid arrives.”
His hand reached for the doorknob, twisting it frantically. The lock held firm.
Just then, the familiar crunch of tires on gravel sounded outside. Sheriff Frank Kincaid’s cruiser pulled into the parking lot, its headlights sweeping across the front of the building. He must have received a call, perhaps from a nervous council member.
Kincaid emerged, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. He eyed Lyle, then me, then the basement door.
“Everything alright here, Mr. Bramford? Ms. Hollister?” Kincaid’s voice was calm, but his presence was an undeniable authority.
Lyle dropped his hand from the doorknob, his face simmering with barely contained fury. “Just a minor discrepancy I needed to clarify, Sheriff. Ms. Hollister seems to think she’s a municipal security guard.”
“I was just ensuring proper procedure, Sheriff,” I said, my gaze never leaving Lyle’s. “Original documents are very important.”
Kincaid nodded slowly. He walked over and inspected the lock on the basement door. It was intact. Lyle’s attempt to erase the paper trail had failed, at least for now.
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