Curtis Had To Hear The County Receipt Read Aloud In Court

“No,” I told Lorna. “I never received $9,800. I never wrote this.”

She closed her eyes.

“I thought the reports sounded like you.”

“Some of the words are mine.”

Curtis had copied a treatment plan I had sent him years before, when he asked how much a proper survey might cost. He had changed the panel names and pasted my name beneath work that had never happened.

I still had the email. Its subject was Estimate Only.

Leah told me to save the original message with its attachments, not just print a screenshot. I did. Then I wrote a signed statement listing every report I had seen and every payment I had not received.

The fund's board suspended Curtis's access to its accounts. Its accountant requested bank records and began matching each grant payment to a bill.

I kept working. Paint did not wait for a court date.

On one panel, the blue ground had lifted in tiny cups. I set those edges down with a fine brush while Vera read her church's storage papers aloud. It helped to hear a person speak over the dry hum of the machine.

Six weeks passed before the full title hearing.

By then, Leah had obtained the entire recording packet through Ruth. Nadine had given a statement about the visit she remembered. Grandma's former lawyer had agreed to testify about preparing the deed and meeting with her.

Curtis's lawyer had received all of it. Nobody could call it a surprise.

Before we entered, Nadine asked whether I had eaten. She gave me half a cheese sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Then she reminded Leah that the receipt showed the fee had been paid in cash, not from the fund. She remembered making change for Grandma from a twenty. Ruth had checked the till record. Even that small detail could be checked against a page.

Still, Curtis came to court carrying the old will.

He set it on the table like a dinner plate he expected us to serve.

Grandma's lawyer explained that she had chosen a present gift with a reserved life estate. He had met with her alone before asking me into the room.

“Did she express a reason?” Leah asked.

“She wanted Simone to have the building and time to decide its future. She wanted to keep using it herself while she lived.”

“Did she understand that a later estate proceeding wouldn't be needed to give Simone that interest?”

“Yes. We discussed it.”

Arthur asked about her age and her bad hands.

“Neither prevented her from explaining her wishes,” the lawyer said.

Then Ruth identified the original transfer envelope and its contents. The stamp, the receipt, the return letter, and the deed number all matched the county's recorded image.

Leah asked Curtis about the counter slip bearing his name.

“I ran an errand,” he said.

“You knew which errand?”

“I didn't study the papers.”

She showed him Grandma's return letter. It asked that the deed be sent to me and named him as the person carrying it to the office.

At its bottom, he had signed a short acknowledgment prepared by her lawyer: Delivery Of Deed Reserving Grantor's Life Estate.

Leah read those words slowly.

“That's your signature?”

“Yes.”

“Before advertising the auction, did you give this document to Mr. Sells?”

“I gave him the will.”

“Did you give him the deed?”

“No.”

The room became very still.

I had imagined wanting him to look at me in that moment. Instead, I watched the court reporter's hands. Every answer was becoming something he could not tuck back into a sleeve.

The judge ruled that the deed was valid and that Grandma's retained life estate had ended with her death. The icehouse had not passed to Curtis under the old will.

The written judgment would confirm my ownership. The order protecting the stored property would stay in place while its claims were resolved.

“This proceeding does not decide any criminal allegation,” the judge added. “Nor does ownership of the building decide ownership of every object inside it.”

Leah touched my wrist beneath the table.

“That's your roof,” she whispered.

Outside, Curtis waited near the steps.

“Enjoy the bills,” he said.

“I asked for them,” I told him. “You haven't sent any.”

He walked away before Nadine reached us.

She held my tin while I found my keys. When she handed it back, she tapped the lid twice.

That evening, the accountant called Leah and me together.

The fund had paid $10,260 in supported lock-service and utility costs. The remaining $38,340 had gone through Curtis's business account on the strength of false treatment claims.

“The bank records are here,” she said. “And there is a payment instruction with your name attached to it.”