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 Millfield municipal records office smelled faintly of old paper and lukewarm coffee. It was just past eight in the morning, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
I felt the quiet hum of the building as I approached the counter.
A young woman with a neat ponytail looked up from her computer. “Can I help you, Cassidy?”
Her voice was soft, but the slight tilt of her head showed she knew about yesterday. Everyone in town knew.
“I need to see the tax assessment records for the 12-acre timber lot, parcel 014-B-7,” I said, my voice steady. “The one attached to the old Hollister property.”
She typed for a moment, then slid a thick folder across the counter. “Here you go. Filed by Arlo Finch.”
I opened the folder, my fingers tracing the faded ink of previous assessments. The value had always been consistent, hovering around $210,000 for years.
Then I saw it. A new form, dated just three weeks ago.
It showed the timber lot re-appraised at a shocking $35,000. My stomach clenched.
And there, at the bottom, was my signature. Neatly forged, a shaky, clumsy imitation of my name. Twist 3 had arrived.
I carried the folder, heavy with dread, across town to Arlo Finch’s cramped office. The bell above the door jingled, and Arlo, a man whose hair seemed permanently disheveled, jumped.
He sat behind a desk piled high with papers, a half-eaten donut beside his blotter. His eyes darted to the folder in my hand.
“Cassidy, good morning,” he stammered, his face blanching. “What can I do for you?”
I laid the form flat on his desk, pointing to the forged signature. “This isn’t my signature, Arlo. You devalued my land by sixty percent and pretended I signed off on it.”
His hands trembled as he pushed the donut plate away. “A clerical error, Cassidy, I swear. Just a mix-up in the paperwork. So many forms come across my desk.”
His gaze kept flicking to the corner of his desk. There, half-hidden by a stack of files, was a sleek, black business card.
Lyle Bramford’s name was printed in silver, with his phone number and “Bramford Holdings” beneath it. It rested on Arlo’s desk calendar like an appointment reminder.
Arlo saw me looking. He quickly swept a hand over it, trying to obscure it from view.
“I’ll fix it right away,” he said, his voice a strained whisper. “Just a small error, easily corrected.”
But the sweat beading on his forehead, and the way his eyes avoided mine, told a different story. Lyle Bramford’s name, a stranger just months ago, was now linked directly to the quiet, nervous corruption in Millfield.
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