Conrad Sent a Demand While We Opened the Family Ledger

Farah didn't call the attached email proof of fraud.

"It's proof that he approved a name change," she said. "Now I need to learn what he knew when he approved it."

I liked her more for that.

The buyer's counsel sent Crescent Kiln a formal list of questions. They wanted the raw Cedar Draw logs, my review notes, the run history, and every message about replacing the well name.

They also asked the seller to leave the data room untouched.

At one, I left with Elena. The closing had been paused in writing. No money had changed hands, and the buyer's staff had gone home with their lunch orders still stacked by reception.

"He'll blame you for that," Elena said.

"He blamed me for the cold rock."

She gave me a tired smile.

My mother lived in a small brick house in southwest Houston. A bucket sat under the carport where a seam leaked. She was at the kitchen table with a ruled ledger, two bank statements, and a plate of sliced pears.

"Eat before you read," she said.

I ate one slice.

My father's old field boots stood by the back door. He had died two years earlier. My mother still used them to prop the door when she carried plants outside.

I hadn't known a pair of empty boots could make me feel so watched over.

"Show me the purchase bills," Elena said gently.

Mom slid the ledger across the table.

There was the $64,800 we had paid for the original well records. There was the $21,450 sensor check. There were invoices for truck rentals, repeat logs, and storage.

There was also the agreement assigning my father's share to my mother, and the paper naming me a manager of Baptiste Field Records.

Nothing depended on me saying, Trust me. It was my father's work.

Every step had a date and a signature.

Mom kept canceled checks in clear sleeves behind each bill. I used to tease her about the space they took. That afternoon, I saw the six years of license payments beside the checks that had bought the records. The two piles told different stories, and neither could replace the other.

"Your father wanted you paid for your work," she said. "He also wanted the measurements to keep their names."

"Did Crescent Kiln ever offer to buy it?" Elena asked.

"Twice," Mom said.

She found a letter offering $300,000 for a full transfer. Conrad had signed it four years earlier.

Under it lay our reply: license only.

"He knew," I said.

"He knew your company owned the records," Elena said. "That's the fact this proves. We won't ask it to prove everything else."

I made a boat from the paper sleeve around a tea bag. It came out lopsided.

Mom pushed the pears toward me again.

At 2:38, Conrad's lawyer sent a demand to Elena. It claimed I had taken confidential materials and interfered with the sale. Unless I withdrew the notice by five, Crescent Kiln would seek $2 million and an emergency court order.

The four weeks of pay would also be withdrawn unless I signed the release.

I read the message twice.

"Can they take the house?"

"A demand letter isn't a judgment," Elena said. "We'll answer what they actually claim."

She asked what I had carried out of the office.

"A mug, a sweater, my plants, and the blue folder."

"Any company records on personal storage?"

"No."

"Any password still active?"

"I haven't tried."

She wrote that down.

We sent a short reply. We identified each attachment to our notice and where it had come from. We offered inspection of the original family papers. We requested the office exit video and the signed equipment receipt.

Elena also asked their lawyer to identify even one specific stolen file.

Then she made tea.

I stared at her.

"That's it?"

"That's the next step. A long angry letter won't improve the evidence."

At four, Farah called with a new problem.

"Their data room now shows a fresh demonstration package. The bad version is gone from the main folder."

"You saved it."

"Yes, through counsel. But I want the original job logs too. They may show which runs failed."

Elena took the phone. She and the buyer's lawyer discussed a preservation request while I washed the mugs.

My mother dried them.

"I should have made more noise," I said.

"You put your concerns in writing."

"Maybe I should have stood on the table."

"Would the rock have gotten hotter?"

I laughed once, despite myself.

At 6:11, a process server arrived at the carport. He asked my name, handed me an envelope, and stepped around the bucket as he left.

Inside was Crescent Kiln's lawsuit.

Clipped to the front was notice of an emergency hearing the next afternoon.