You don't belong on these grounds, Emma, my brother Julian said, stepping into the warm glow of the country club entryway and motioning for security to block me. "A disgraced felon ruins the fami...
Arthur’s outstretched hand, still clutching the envelope, remained suspended for a moment longer. His features, usually so composed, showed a flicker of genuine surprise. He slowly retracted the money, tucking it away without another word.
I felt a ghost of a memory, a flash from six months ago, when Mom had just passed. I remembered the heavy silence of her empty room, the hospital bills piling up.
My probation officer had warned me about the legal copying service job. Long hours, minimum wage, but it was honest work. I’d started working the graveyard shift, the hum of the old Xerox machines a constant companion. That’s where the idea had first taken root.
Late nights, surrounded by legal documents, I learned the language of the courts. I saw how petitions were filed, how evidence was presented. I saw the loopholes, but also the strict protocols.
The pay was barely enough for rent and groceries, but every extra dollar went into a separate envelope. Five hundred dollars for the independent DNA lab fees, then another hundred for the certified mail. Without a lawyer, without an ally, I knew I had to do it myself.
I’d walked into the state probate clerk’s office, a single brown folder clutched in my hand. The clerk, a kindly woman with reading glasses perched on her nose, had looked at me, a 20-year-old in work clothes, with a mix of pity and confusion.
“Are you sure you want to self-file this motion, dear?” she’d asked gently. “It’s…unusual, for a genetic mandate.”
“Yes,” I’d said, my voice steady. “I’m sure.”
I’d spent weeks drafting the petitions, citing the relevant statutes, learning the precise wording. My hands had shaken as I signed the affidavit, swearing to the truth of my claims. It had been four days ago when I finally handed the stack of papers across the counter.
Back in the present, a different kind of transaction was unfolding in the elegant hallway outside the lounge. Julian Hollingsworth, looking every inch the privileged heir in his tailored suit, cornered Leland Croft, the notary public.
Croft, a man with a perpetually nervous twitch in his eye, was trying to blend in with the other guests, a glass of champagne in his hand.
Julian’s voice, though low, carried a sharp edge. “Croft, you idiot, those papers are here. Director Danforth has them.”
Croft’s face paled, the champagne glass wobbling in his hand. “But… but the payment. I ensured the county clerk buried them.”
“Well, you didn’t ensure enough, did you?” Julian retorted, his gaze darting towards the lounge where I stood. “She’s here. And she’s got a court order.”
He pulled out his phone, tapping furiously. “I need you to sign an affidavit, right now. Say her filing is fraudulent. Say it’s a forgery. Anything.”
Croft swallowed hard, his eyes wide. “Julian, that’s… that’s illegal. My license. And you said you’d protect me.”
“I’ll protect you with another ten thousand dollars, Croft,” Julian snapped, holding his phone up. “Transferred to your personal account by midnight. Right now.”
He stared down Croft, who looked from the phone to my distant figure in the lounge, then back to the offer. The notary public’s eyes were fixed on the screen, where Julian had already pulled up his banking app. Greed, I knew, was a powerful motivator, especially for a man already compromised.
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