Chapter 7 - Smoke on the Horizon
The sun dipped below the tree line by four o’clock, painting the western sky in bruised shades of purple and amber.
Out at the roadside grocery store, the air was thick with the smell of old cedar dust and pine pitch. Eli’s hydraulic jack groaned softly as it pushed against the sagging roofline of the front porch, while Don Joseph stood below, directing operations with a weathered wooden yardstick he used like a conductor’s baton.
“A little more to the left, Eli! If you force it too fast, the header’s going to split!” Don called out, his voice carrying clearly through the crisp evening air.
Eli grunted from beneath the porch overhang, adjusting the chain on the jack. “If I go any slower, Don, we’ll be out here till the next ice age. Hand me that three-quarter wrench.”
Shawn stepped out of the grocery store’s front door, carrying a rusted metal toolbox he had found behind the counter. The interior of the store was a time capsule. Shelves that had once held cans of soup, boxes of oats, and jars of pickled eggs were now covered in a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs hung like gray lace from the ceiling rafters.
Yet, beneath the neglect, the bones of the place were solid. Oak floorboards, hand-hewn by his grandfather in the nineteen-fifties. A massive iron wood-burning stove sitting in the center of the room, cold and silent.
Shawn set the toolbox down on the wooden counter and ran his hand along the scarred surface of the checkout desk. This was where he had spent his childhood afternoons, doing arithmetic homework while his father weighed bags of nails for local farmers.
A crunch of footsteps sounded on the gravel outside.
Shawn turned. A tall, middle-aged woman in a heavy wool coat and dark slacks was walking up the path toward the store. Her silver-streaked hair was tied back in a practical knot, and she carried a clipboard under her arm.
It was Judge Catherine Vance—no relation to Julian, though in a town like Pinewood Ridge, everybody was distantly connected to everyone else. Catherine had served as the county probate judge for over twenty years.
She stopped at the edge of the porch, looking up at Don and Eli before turning her gaze to Shawn as he stepped out the door.
“Evening, Shawn,” Catherine said, her voice crisp and authoritative. “I heard you were back in town. Looks like you brought your tools with you.”
“Evening, Judge,” Shawn said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Just assessing the damage.”
Catherine walked up the steps, her boots clicking sharply against the newly cleared wood. She looked around the dilapidated storefront through the glass door before turning back to Shawn.
“The emergency injunctions filed by your corporate legal team cleared my desk this morning,” she said, her tone professional but not unfriendly. “Julian Vance is currently being held at the county detention center pending a formal arraignment on charges of fraud, identity theft, and unlawful confinement. His defense counsel tried to file for an emergency bond review an hour ago.”
Shawn crossed his arms. “And?”
“I denied it,” Catherine said simply. “When a man locks senior citizens in a cellar and strips them of their legal identity, he forfeits his right to spend the holidays on a golf course.” She paused, looking toward Don Joseph, who was walking over from the jack with Eli. “Your father looks better than he did on paper, Shawn. The medical reports from the hospital were... disturbing, to say the least.”
Don walked up the steps, pulling off his leather work gloves and tucking them into his belt. He gave the judge a respectful nod.
“I’ve seen worse winters, Catherine,” Don said dryly. “And I’ve had worse company.”
Catherine smiled faintly. “Well, you won’t have to worry about that particular company for a very long time, Don. The state’s attorney is throwing the book at Julian, and Brenda’s case has been assigned a special public defender. But there’s a legal matter we need to settle regarding the property titles before the new year.”
Shawn looked at the judge. “What kind of matter?”
“When Julian forced your parents into signing those quitclaim deeds, he filed them through a dummy corporation registered out of state,” Catherine explained, tapping her clipboard. “To legally restore the property to Don and Maria, we need a formal affidavit from you confirming the origin of the funds used to pay the property taxes over the last six years.”
May you like
Shawn didn’t hesitate. “Consider it signed. My legal team has all the wire receipts, bank statements, and digital logs ready to file.”
Catherine nodded, turning to leave. “Good. Get it to my office by Friday morning, and I’ll sign the restoration order before the holiday break. Welcome home, Shawn.”
