Seven Checks Left Untouched in a Cedar Desk Drawer
She folded the paper twice and slid it under a stack of blank tax forms on her desk.
“Meet me at the diner across the street in ten minutes,” she said, her eyes moving back to the frosted glass door.
The diner across from the courthouse smelled of burnt lard and old coffee. It was past the breakfast rush, and only two men in grease-stained work jackets sat at the counter, talking about the high school football game.
We sat in the back corner booth, the red vinyl seat cracking under my weight.
Sarah kept her hands wrapped around her thick white mug, her eyes staying on the front door as the bell chimed.
“That trust is not a normal real estate purchase, Cathy,” she said, keeping her voice so low I had to lean over the sugar shaker to hear her.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my fingers tightening on the edge of the table.
“There is a restriction clause on page four of the trust agreement,” Sarah said, taking a quick sip of her lukewarm coffee.
She leaned across the table, her glasses slipping down her nose.
“The property cannot be sold, mortgaged, or transferred to anyone else unless your sister Rosie is legally declared incompetent,” she said.
I stared at her, the heavy mug of tea untouched in front of me.
“Incompetent,” I repeated, the word tasting like rust.
“If she is declared unfit to care for herself, the trustee has the sole power to liquidate the asset immediately,” Sarah said.
“And the money goes back to the trust,” I said, my heart sinking as I realized what my father had built.
“Your father has legally bound that entire property, Cathy,” Sarah said, looking down at her watch.
“Does Ben know about this clause?” I asked.
