— Marcus, can you send me everything? The deed, the transfer, the notary stamp?
— Already in your encrypted inbox. But here’s the kicker. The notary who stamped it, a woman named Camille Drayton, had her license pulled last year for falsifying DMV affidavits. She’s still out there, but she shouldn’t be notarizing anything. Someone paid her off.
I rubbed my temples. The fluorescent lights hummed above me, a steady drone like a distant engine. Every piece was locking into a picture I didn’t want to see.
— Keep digging, I said. I need to know who’s behind Raven Holdings.
— Already on it. But watch your back, Ara. People who forge deeds don’t stop there.
I ended the call and stared at the condensation on the window. The reflection of a tired woman in a rumpled uniform stared back, her eyes hollow. I’d fought in cyber trenches, taken down state-sponsored hackers, and survived a bombing in Bahrain. But nothing prepared me for the betrayal of blood.Uniforms & Workwear
The next morning, I met Ava Klene. She was an old friend from undergrad, now a litigator with a reputation for taking on estate fraud cases. We met at a small café with cracked vinyl booths and the smell of fresh croissants. Ava walked in, pressed slacks, dark blazer, a tablet under her arm. She didn’t look surprised to see me in uniform, just pulled up a chair and ordered an espresso.
— I saw the listing this morning, she said, flipping her tablet toward me. Sycamore Lane, listed under Raven Holdings LLC.
I stared at the screen. My home. My grandfather’s home. Reduced to a digital listing with a price tag.
— They moved fast, I muttered.
