Chapter 3 - The Sheriff’s Mountain Visit
The silence in the lodge was absolute now, broken only by the crackle of pine logs catching fire in the hearth—logs I had split myself with an axe behind the woodshed back in September.
Olivia’s face went from pale to a mottled, ugly crimson. "You wouldn't call the police on your own family. You're sick, Becca. You've always been bitter because Mom paid for my semester in Florence while you stayed home and went to community college."
"State school," I corrected her smoothly, walking toward the kitchen island and picking up my deed sleeve. "And I didn't go into debt for it. Unlike Jason’s landscaping business, which I hear is currently facing three separate mechanics' liens."
Jason flinched as if I’d thrown a glass of ice water in his face. Sourdough Sarah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Small-town gossip travels fast, but Denver financial records travel faster when you work in commercial risk assessment and know how to run a basic corporate lookup during your lunch break.
"Where did you hear that?" Jason snarled, taking a step forward.
"Public record, Jason. Same place I found out your LLC was dissolved by the Secretary of State last month," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "You didn't buy a Christmas place. You needed an asset to shield from creditors before the bank starts foreclosure proceedings on your suburban McMansion in Cherry Hills. And Olivia thought she could use her elderly mother and a forged power of attorney to steal my cabin as collateral."
"That is a lie!" Olivia shrieked, finally dropping the Southern-gentility-meets-Boulder-wellness act entirely. She lunged toward the counter, her manicured nails clawing at the plastic sleeve. "Mom, tell her! Tell her you gave us permission!"
My mother didn't move. She couldn't. Because she knew, and I knew, and anyone with half a brain in that room could see, that even if Mom had signed some piece of paper Olivia shoved under her nose while she was half-asleep watching Hallmark movies, a power of attorney doesn't give you the right to give away someone else's real estate. Especially real estate purchased with single-source funds deposited directly from a Chase account bearing my name alone.
Before Olivia could grab the folder, Aunt Carol stepped between us, her face pinched with disapproval—not at Olivia, but at the mess of it all.
"Now, girls, stop this carrying on," Aunt Carol scolded, as if we were arguing over who got the last piece of pie at Thanksgiving. "Becca, there's no need to bring up business troubles at a family gathering. We're all here for the holidays. Can't you two just share?"
Share.
That word had been the soundtrack of my entire childhood. *Share your room with Olivia. Share your clothes with Olivia. Share your savings bond from Grandma with Olivia because she lost her allowance on a trip to the mall.*
"No, Aunt Carol," I said, my voice cold enough to freeze the champagne in their glasses. "I can't share. Because this isn't a bedroom set. This is mine."
Right on cue, the heavy exterior gate sensor chimed—a low, rhythmic beep from the control box by the front door. A minute later, the crunch of heavy treads on packed snow signaled an arrival. Not a Subaru. Not a BMW SUV.
A Hinsdale County Sheriff’s Department Ford F-250, complete with amber light bars and studded snow tires, pulled right up to the front porch.
Deputy Miller—a mountain native with a mustache that looked like a pine bough and eyes that had seen every Denver city slicker slide off Route 550 into a ravine—stepped out of the truck. He didn't bother knocking. He just pushed the front door open, letting a blast of thirty-degree air rush into the crowded room.
"Evening," Deputy Miller said, his boots leaving a trail of slush on my clean floorboards. "Got a call from the county dispatcher about a property dispute up at parcel 41-B. Someone said there’s a break-in."
Olivia’s face lit up with desperate hope. "Officer! Thank goodness! This woman—she’s trespassing! She forced her way into our home, and she’s threatening us!"
Miller looked at Olivia, then at Jason in his tight polo, then at my mother holding her wine glass like a life raft. Finally, his eyes landed on me, standing by the kitchen island with my backpack and my clear plastic folder.
May you like
"Evenin', Becca," Miller said, a slow, dry grin cracking his weathered face. "Didn't expect to see you up here till Christmas Eve. Thought you were still down in the city dealing with that warehouse fire claim."
"Good evening, Ray," I said, walking over and handing him the plastic sleeve. "I finished early. And it looks like I arrived just in time to catch some squatters christening my living room."
