Chapter 4: The Registrar's Office
Dawn broke gray and cold, filtering a pale, watery light through the grimy warehouse windows across the street. I had not slept. A cup of black coffee sat untouched beside my keyboard, cold and skin-topped. My eyes felt dry, but my mind was operating with terrifying precision. I dressed in a sharp charcoal blazer and tailored trousers, sweeping my long brown hair back into a severe twist. I loaded the encrypted flash drive into my leather folio, picked up my car keys, and walked out into the crisp morning air before the city fully woke up.
The county records office was quiet at eight in the morning, smelling faintly of old paper, floor wax, and municipal coffee. I bypassed the public kiosks and walked straight to the inner counter where senior registrar Thomas Vance sat reviewing bound volumes of property deeds. Thomas had known my father for thirty years; he had watched me run through these very hallways as a child. When he looked up and saw me standing before his desk, his professional reserve cracked slightly, replaced by immediate, profound concern.
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"Good morning, my dear," Thomas said softly, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "You look like you've been through a war. Word travels fast in this town, especially when Margaret Vance is hosting a charity preview at the estate. Is everything all right?" I placed my leather folio flat on the wooden counter and unzipped it with deliberate slowness. "Good morning, Thomas. I need to verify a filing from three days ago regarding the primary title transfer for the Northridge estate," I said, my voice calm, even, and entirely devoid of emotion.
Thomas frowned, pulling his terminal keyboard toward him. He typed in the parcel number, his fingers hesitating as the screen populated with data. He blinked once, twice, then looked up at me with deep alarm. "That's odd," he muttered. "The primary deed was amended forty-eight hours ago. It lists sole survivorship and ownership transfer to Margaret Vance, with Ethan Vance as primary executor. But... the physical signature on file... it doesn't match your father's notarized trust registry from the probate court." I leaned in slightly, my eyes locking onto his. "Because it isn't his signature, Thomas. It’s a complete fabrication."
