Chapter 3 - The Frozen Ground
I drove recklessly through the slick, salt-streaked streets of Woodward Avenue, my knuckles turning white against the steering wheel.
The drive back to the neighborhood felt agonizingly slow, blocked by heavy winter traffic and gray slush.
When I finally turned onto Grandma's familiar street, the massive estate liquidator truck was still idling loudly at the curb.
I slammed my car into park, not even bothering to lock the doors as I threw myself out into the freezing wind.
The front door of the house was wide open, but the foyer was completely empty of workers.
I sprinted straight through the living room, noticing that all the heavy antique furniture was completely gone.
I burst through the leaky back door and ran onto the wooden deck overlooking the small, snow-covered yard.
Two massive men in heavy winter coats were violently hacking at the frozen dirt near the old tomato garden with steel shovels.
Aunt Brenda was standing calmly on the edge of the porch, smoking a cigarette and watching them work.
I screamed at the top of my lungs, ordering the men to drop their shovels and get off the property immediately.
The workers paused, looking up at me with annoyed expressions before turning to my aunt for direction.
Brenda took a long, slow drag of her cigarette and smiled at me with absolute, chilling confidence.
She told the men to ignore me and keep digging, claiming I had no legal authority to stop them.
I marched down the wooden steps, threatening to call the police and have them all arrested for trespassing.
Brenda reached into the pocket of her expensive wool coat and pulled out a neatly folded legal document.
She casually tossed the heavy paper onto the frozen snow directly at my feet.
I picked it up with trembling hands, my eyes rapidly scanning the dense legal jargon printed on the page.
It was a quitclaim deed, officially transferring the total ownership of the Boston Edison house directly to Brenda.
The document was supposedly signed by Grandma Shirley a full five years ago.
I looked at the signature and immediately knew it was a clumsy, rushed forgery that looked nothing like Grandma's handwriting.
However, the bright blue notary stamp at the bottom of the page made the document look legally flawless to any outside observer.
I stared closely at the notary's signature and recognized the name as one of the loan officers from the downtown bank.
Brenda had literally bought off a bank official to legitimize her stolen real estate empire.
I looked up to confront her about the blatant fraud, but my voice died completely in my throat.
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One of the workers suddenly yelled out, dropping his shovel into the snow with a loud, metallic clank.
Brenda threw her cigarette into the slush and smiled wickedly, announcing that they had just hit metal.
