Dean’s jaw went tight.

“Vance is a washed-up bookkeeper who spent his whole career squinting at receipts in a basement with no windows.

He has no legal authority in this county.”

“He can read a date stamp,” I said.

Dean yanked the pen out of my hand and jammed it back into his breast pocket.

He snatched the top two pages of the agreement, crumpling the edges in his hurry.

“If you don’t sign by Friday, I’m pulling my personal guarantee on your estate credit line,” Dean said.