“We have twenty-four months of certified bank wire statements right here, Robert,” Daniel said, keeping his voice low and flat.

“A uniform doesn’t pay property taxes on Virginia soil, young lady,” my father said, turning and pointing his right index finger straight at my chest.

A local woman holding a stack of blue court folders stopped six feet away to listen.

“She was nothing more than an occasional guest in my late father’s home,” my father told the head clerk at the counter, who stopped typing mid-sentence.

“She’s not a real homeowner.”