My parents stood in the middle of Grandpa’s farm, told me they’d already sold the land to a developer, shoved “consent” papers at my chest, and sneered that I didn’t own a thing, but when I asked for the probate file number, my dad snapped, my mom smirked, and I drove straight to the county clerk instead

Seeing a case number beside my grandfather’s name felt like the ground shifting back beneath my feet.

Now there was a court file.

Now there was a place for the truth to stand.

“I need something else,” I said. “I need the recorder notified that probate is open.”

She nodded.

“Your attorney can file a notice of probate and a notice of pending action. But once the case hits the system, you can record the case number today.”

“How long until it hits?”

“Within the hour.”

Then she lowered her voice slightly.

“And Ms. Rowan—if that affidavit of heirship was knowingly false, that’s serious.”

“I know.”

I stepped aside and called Tessa again.

“It’s filed,” I said. “New case number. Petition and emergency motion submitted.”

“Good. Now we cloud the title. Go back to recording. I’m emailing you language for notice of probate and notice of pending action right now.”

Within seconds, two PDFs hit my inbox.

Short.

Clean.

Deadly.

I printed them at the public kiosk down the hall and returned to Mara’s desk.

She looked up and recognized me immediately.

“You opened probate.”

“Yes,” I said. “I need to record these against the farm parcel today.”

She took the papers, checked the case number, and nodded.

“Give me ten minutes.”