My gaze dropped to the stack of legal papers Eleanor had brought. It wasn’t just a single court order. There was a thick packet of documents, all bearing official-looking seals and stamps.
Each page seemed to hum with malice.
“Let me see those,” I demanded, reaching for the folder. My fingers brushed against hers, and her hand remained unyielding, a small power play.
She held them just out of my reach, a deliberate delay.
“Careful, dear. These are important documents. Not just any piece of paper you can snatch.” Her voice dripped with condescension.
Finally, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, she let me take the folder. The weight of it was substantial, like a stone in my gut. I flipped through the pages quickly, my eyes scanning for any detail, any inconsistency.
Most of it was boilerplate legal jargon, but one section immediately snagged my attention: the property appraisal lien. It was the linchpin, detailing my supposed inability to maintain the estate.
The signature at the bottom made my breath catch.
Barnaby Finch. County appraiser. I’d heard the name, but never expected to see it tied to my home.
Below his florid signature, the property boundaries were outlined. My brow furrowed. I knew our land, every curve and corner of it, better than I knew my own face. This map was wrong.
It expanded far beyond our deeded property lines, encompassing sections of the old, untamed woods and even a portion of the Garrick family’s adjacent hunting grounds.
“These boundaries are impossible,” I stated, pointing to a particular jagged line that cut through the old growth maples. “This isn’t our land. This is miles off.”
Eleanor watched me, her expression unreadable. She seemed to enjoy my confusion.
“Are you questioning the integrity of a county official, Lily?” she asked, her voice laced with mock concern. “Barnaby Finch is a respected man.”
I remembered whispers from town – rumors of Finch’s flexible ethics, his habit of favoring certain wealthy clients. But never anything concrete enough to act on.
The document claimed our property was worth a staggering amount, over two and a half million dollars, far more than its market value. It inflated the taxes and created an impossible debt, a debt that would force me to sell.
“This is a fraud,” I insisted, my voice rising. “This is a forged appraisal.”
Eleanor simply tilted her head. “Allegations, dear. Easily dismissed. You have no proof. Meanwhile, my guardianship papers are entirely legitimate.”
She pointed to a clause further down the page, buried in the legal text. It stated that if the current guardian (me) was found to be in “gross financial dereliction regarding the maintenance of said estate,” the property could be seized to cover the non-existent debt.
The amount of the alleged lien was exactly $2.5 million. The same inflated value.
It was a perfectly crafted trap. She had conspired with Finch to create a debt so astronomical, a property so overvalued, that I would be forced into foreclosure, simultaneously proving my supposed negligence.
My eyes darted to the clock. Units 3 and 7 were still a minute out. Toby was alone, and I was trapped in this web of legal deceit, while Eleanor watched me squirm. I had to get this proof out of here.
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