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She glanced left and right like she was checking who could hear. Then she reached down and slid my notice away from the window, out of sight, like it was suddenly dangerous to leave it sitting there. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“There’s a restricted hold on this,” she said. “Suspected forged documents.”
She nodded once, eyes still fixed on the screen. Then she looked up at me. Serious now, not clerical.
“Do you have your keys?” she asked. “Yes,” I said, confused. “Go there,” she said quietly.
“Right now.”
My throat went dry. “Why?”
Her eyes didn’t blink. “Because if someone filed this,” she whispered, “they might already be trying the next step.”
Then, even lower:
“Don’t go alone.”
I didn’t argue with the clerk.
In the parking lot, I sat in my car with the engine running and forced myself to breathe like I was giving a statement. Slow in, slow out. Because panic makes you miss details.
And details were the only thing standing between me and losing my house on paper. The clerk’s words kept looping in my head. If someone filed this, they might already be trying the next step.
I called the only person I trusted to show up without asking questions. My friend Mariah. She lived thirty minutes away, but she’s the kind of woman who hears “I need you” and doesn’t ask why first.
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