“That’s not possible.”
Martin leaned back.
“Robert, has anyone from this lender contacted you?”
“No.”
“Any certified letters?”
“No.”
“Calls?”
“Nothing.”
Denise spoke from the doorway.
“There’s also a mailing address associated with the filing.”
Martin looked at her.
“Which address?”
She glanced at me.
“Mr. Humbert’s.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then why didn’t we receive anything?”
That question followed me all the way home.
Patricia stood by the kitchen window while I told her about the lien filing.
“We would have seen a certified letter,” she said.
“I know.”
“We haven’t been away.”
“I know.”
She turned toward the front door.
Then she went still.
“What?”
“Our mailbox.”
“What about it?”
“Remember when the lock was sticking?”
I did.
Three months earlier, the small lock on our community mailbox had jammed.
Geoffrey had offered to replace it.
He told me the latch was worn and borrowed my mailbox key so he could buy a matching lock cylinder.
