Chapter 8: Unearthing the Past
The sun had climbed halfway up the gray mountain ridge by the time I slipped through the creaking screen door of the local county records office. The room smelled of old paper, floor wax, and damp wool. Overhead, a slow-spinning ceiling fan ticked rhythmically against the acoustic tile ceiling. An elderly clerk with thick glasses and a pale pink cardigan looked up from behind a high wooden counter, her pencil pausing mid-stroke over a leather-bound ledger.
“Can I help you, young man?” she asked, her voice dry and clipped, taking in my scuffed sneakers, my oversized jacket, and the dirt smudged across my cheek from the fence. “Children aren't typically permitted in the archives section without a guardian present.”
I swallowed hard, stepping closer to the counter and sliding the small folded paper across the polished wood. “I’m looking for property records associated with this address,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could so I wouldn't sound like a runaway. “It’s from nineteen-ninety-eight. My grandmother’s name is Martha Miller. Her house was sold under a disputed lien.”
The clerk peered down at the slip of paper through the lower half of her bifocals, her eyebrows drawing together in a sharp line. She reached out with a manicured finger and pulled the paper closer, examining the faded ink and the old county seal stamped on the bottom corner. A slow, quiet recognition flickered in her eyes, replacing the initial annoyance.
“Miller,” she murmured softly, turning around to pull a heavy metal drawer from the wall behind her. She flipped through a series of yellowed manila folders before extracting a thin, stapled file. “That property on the north ridge... there was a lot of legal trouble surrounding that transfer. The original mortgage was co-signed by a local contractor who skipped town right before the boom. But the secondary deed... that was transferred under a very specific quitclaim deed years later.”
She slid the file forward, opening the cover to reveal a typewritten document with fading signatures at the bottom. My eyes raced down the page until they landed on a familiar scrawl in thick black ink: Jackson Vance.
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“He owned it,” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “Jax didn't just walk away from my mom and my grandma. He signed over the deed to the only home we had left, and then he vanished into the biker clubs.”
The clerk watched me with a sudden, deep sadness in her gaze. “Child, that man built a whole new life on the backs of deals made in rooms you don't want to know about. If you’re carrying that paper around to ask him for favors, you’re knocking on the wrong door.”
