Her smile went sharp. That’s adorable. You know just enough to be dangerous. She pulled out a business card, held it between two fingers like it was contaminated. Brian Keer, our attorney, he’ll explain why your claim is, what’s the legal term? Frivolous. I took the card. How many houses are sold? All 96.
Preconstruction sales totaled 16 million. Families are moving in by Thanksgiving. She said it like a threat. This is a legitimate development properly permitted through Boulder County. If you continue trespassing, I’ll call Sheriff Mitchell personally. We’re major contributors to his department’s equipment fund. Then she did something that made my blood freeze.
She pulled out her phone, snapped my license plate. Just in case you decide to come back and vandalize anything, we have excellent security footage. She leaned closer. And trust me, honey, people like you don’t win against people like us. The diesel smell from a nearby excavator mixed with fresh concrete.
A nail gun echoed pop like a countdown. I drove home, hands shaking. That night, I spread Grandpa’s documents across my kitchen table. The 1971 deed, 47 annual tax receipts, survey maps. Cassandra had threatened me, photographed my truck, and implied I was a criminal. She’d also just given me everything I needed to bury her.
Monday morning, I called Brian Keer, Cassandra’s attorney. His receptionist had that voice. Professionally pleasant in the way dentists are when they’re about to tell you that you need a root canal. Mr. Keer is in depositions all week. Can I take a message? Dakota Flint about the Ridgeline Heights property. Pause. Oh, yes. Mr. Keer anticipated your call.
He’s authorized me to offer a nuisance settlement of $15,000 if you’ll sign a quit claim deed by Friday. $15,000 for $4 million in land. I’d heard about quit claim deeds from my divorce. That’s how my ex got the time sharing Branson that neither of us wanted. Basically, you’re signing away all your rights to something without anyone promising those rights actually exist.
It’s the legal equivalent of saying, “I give up. Don’t even care if I’m right.” My divorce lawyer had told me, “Never sign one unless you’re absolutely sure you’re walking away from nothing.” “Tell Mr. Keer I’ll see him in court,” I said and hung up before she could respond. I needed a real lawyer, not the guy who’d handled my divorce for $2,200.
I needed the kind who makes other lawyers check their malpractice insurance. My buddy Marcus, a civil engineer in Cheyenne, gave me one name, Lydia Chen. She’d beaten a railroad company in a Wyoming adverse possession case so badly they’d offered her a job just to make her stop. Her consultation fee was $500.
I paid it with a credit card and prayed. Lydia’s office smelled like old leather and lemon furniture polish, the kind of smell that costs money to maintain. She was about 60, gray hair and a tight bun, reading glasses on a beaded chain. She listened to my entire story without interrupting, making notes and handwriting so perfect it looked like a font.
When I finished, she set down her pen. Show me your tax receipts. I pulled out a folder thick enough to hurt someone. Email confirmations, bank statements, county records, every April payment since 2019, plus copies going back to grandpa’s first payment in 1971. She flipped through them, and I watched her mouth twitch into something that might have been a smile on a less controlled face.
