Chapter 6 - The Paper Trail
The party was in full swing when Arthur and I walked across the emerald lawn separating the two estates. Strings of Edison lights hung between the patio posts, illuminating dozens of well-dressed guests sipping champagne from crystal flutes. A jazz quartet played softly near the French doors.
In the center of the patio, standing next to a brass easel showcasing the blueprints for the new luxury pool, stood my father, Mason, and three older men whose tailored suits marked them as the senior partners of the investment firm.
Lauren was laughing loudly, her hand resting on Mason’s arm. “We had to clear out some overgrown brush on the east border yesterday,” she was telling one of the partners’ wives. “The view was completely blocked by these dreadful, rotting old trees. A home like this requires light, you know?”
“Rotting trees?” I said, stepping through the low archway onto the flagstone terrace.
My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the jazz music like a blade.
The laughter died. Lauren froze, her champagne flute pausing halfway to her lips. When she saw me, her expression instantly twisted into a sneer of pure fury. She glanced at the senior partners, terrified that my presence would shatter her curated aesthetic of flawless luxury.
“Claire?” my mother hissed, appearing from behind a catering table, her face flushed red. “What did I tell you? You were told not to come here!”
My father took two heavy steps forward, his brows furrowed, his voice vibrating with patriarchal authority. “Claire, turn around and leave immediately. You are not embarrassing this family in front of our guests. You have no business here.”
“Actually, Richard,” Arthur Vance said, stepping out from behind me, “Miss Sterling has every business being here. More business, in fact, than anyone holding a drink on this patio.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed as he recognized Arthur. “Who the hell are you? A process server? Get off my property before I have the police remove you for trespassing.”
“You might want to hold off on calling the police, Mason,” I said calmly, opening the leather folder. “Because the police are already here. Along with the Chief Forestry Inspector for the county.”
Two uniformed sheriff’s deputies and an official in a khaki state uniform stepped through the cedar gate behind us, their heavy boots crunching rhythmically on the decorative gravel.
The chatter among the sixty guests went dead silent. The jazz quartet stopped playing mid-measure.
“What is the meaning of this?” Dad stammered, his face turning an alarming shade of crimson as he looked around at his horrified high-society peers. “This is a private celebration!”
“Forty-eight hours ago,” Arthur Vance announced clearly, his voice carrying effortlessly across the silent courtyard, “the occupants of this residence willfully and illegally felled three historic White Oaks, inventory markers 402 through 404, on the parcel designated as 18 Hawthorne Lane.”
Lauren laughed nervously, clutching her husband’s arm. “I told you! That property belongs to a corporate management firm! Claire is just an envious tenant who rents a room over there!”
Arthur pulled a certified document stamped with the golden seal of the State Land Registry and handed it directly to my father.
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“Claire is not a tenant, Mrs. Sterling,” Arthur said with razor-sharp precision. “Miss Claire Sterling is the sole owner and primary shareholder of Aegis Holdings LLC. She owns Number 18 Hawthorne Lane outright, unencumbered by any mortgage. She is the deed holder. She is your neighbor. And she is the owner of the land you just devastated.”
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