Chapter 6 - Custody and Conspiracies
The drive up to Pine Ridge followed the winding river road, where the autumn fog hung low over the canopy of hemlock and pine.
Hollis sat in the back, singing a quiet, wordless tune to herself while holding a wooden bird I had carved for her out of scrap cedar years ago.
"Uncle Cass?" she called out softly over the hum of the tires.
"Yeah, sweet pea?"
"Is Mommy mad at me because I took up too much room?"
The question hit me like a blow to the chest. I slowed the truck down as we passed a quiet bend in the river, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror.
"Your mommy was wrong, Hollis," I said, keeping my voice utterly steady and warm. "You don't take up too much room. You could take up a whole mountain, and it still wouldn't be enough."
"Greg said the new baby needed my bed," she whispered, looking down at the wooden bird. "He said I was big enough to go away."
"Greg is a coward," I said plainly. "He told you a story that wasn't true because he wanted something that didn't belong to him. But you’re safe now. You’re never going back there."
She nodded slowly, accepting my words with the deep, quiet trust that children give only to the people who prove they mean what they say.
We reached Pine Ridge just after noon. The notary’s office was located in a small, weathered brick building behind the old town hall. Arthur Pendelton, an elderly man with thick trifocal glasses and ink-stained fingers, remembered Brennan the moment I mentioned his name.
"Brennan Vance was as honest a boy as ever walked into this office," Mr. Pendelton said, shaking his head as he pulled a heavy ledger from a steel fireproof safe in the corner. "He came in here two weeks before his accident. He was scared, Cassian. He told me he didn't trust his wife's new friend."
"Did he execute the land trust?" I asked, holding my breath.
"He did," Pendelton said, laying a thick document stamped with a raised gold seal onto the counter. "The Hollis Vance Irrevocable Land Trust. It explicitly states that the sixty acres of timberland cannot be sold, mortgaged, or transferred until Hollis reaches twenty-five years of age. And in the event of Brennan’s death, the sole designated trustee isn't Brenda."
Pendelton turned the document over and pointed to the bold signature line at the bottom.
"It’s you, Cassian. He named you as her legal trustee and guardian of the land."
I stared at my brother's signature. It was strong, clear, and unmistakable—with the double loop at the bottom of the capital 'B'.
"Why didn't you file this with the county clerk when he died?" I asked.
"Brennan asked me to hold it in escrow until he paid off the small recording fee," Pendelton said sadly. "He said he’d be back the following Friday with the cash. He died on Thursday night."
"Can you certify this copy right now?"
"I already have," Pendelton said, pressing the raised seal into two additional official copies. "This land belongs to that little girl back there, Cassian. Nobody can touch it without your signature."
As I stepped out of the notary’s office holding the certified trust documents in a sealed envelope, a dark gray pickup truck idled at the curb across the street.
The windows were heavily tinted, but I recognized the lifted suspension and the cracked driver's-side mirror immediately.
It was Greg’s truck.
He hadn't just followed us—he had been watching Pendelton’s office.
I didn't reach for a weapon, and I didn't accelerate my pace. I walked straight to my truck, placed the legal envelope securely inside my leather coat, and buckled Hollis into her seat.
Through the rear window, I watched as the driver's window of the gray pickup rolled down an inch. A hand reached out and tossed a heavy metal object onto the wet asphalt before the truck pulled away, its tires screeching against the road.
I walked over and picked up the object from the road.
It was a heavy steel master lock—the exact model used to lock the main access gate to my workshop.
It had been cut cleanly in half with hydraulic bolt cutters.
It was a message: We’ve already been inside your home.
I held the broken lock in my fist, feeling the sharp edges of the sliced metal bite into my palm. I looked back at Hollis, who was smiling as she watched a squirrel run up an oak tree by the sidewalk.
They thought breaking into my workshop would intimidate me. They thought threatening my brother's memory would make me back down.
They didn't understand that a man who has already lost his brother has nothing left to fear—except failing the child left behind.
I pulled out my phone and called Naira.
May you like
"Naira," I said, my voice ice cold. "Get Judge Miller on the line. We aren't waiting for Friday."
Here are Part 7 and Part 8 of the story, bringing the investigation to a head as the conspirators are backed into a corner and the full truth of that fateful night comes to light.
