“Amend it how?”
“She claims you gave permission to join the HOA.”
My chest tightened. “I didn’t.”
“I know.” Dolores slid one last document forward. A consent form with my name typed at the bottom and a signature that looked like it had been drawn by a drunk child.
Forgery.
“She tried to file it,” Dolores said. “I refused. Smelled wrong.”
I walked out of the courthouse with the truth burning hot in my hands and a new understanding settling into my bones.
This wasn’t a misunderstanding.
It was a scam.
And they had picked the wrong diesel mechanic.
I didn’t sleep much that night.
The quiet felt heavier now, like the land itself was holding its breath. Every sound carried farther. Wind brushing the siding. A distant coyote calling somewhere beyond the dark. I kept replaying Dolores sliding that forged document across the counter, the sloppy fake of my name, the casual confidence Brinley must have had to even attempt it.
People like that didn’t bluff unless they’d gotten away with it before.
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