My heart pounded as I stepped away from the auctioneer’s platform, clutching the papers tightly. The other attendees, mostly farmers and ranchers, huddled in small groups, their whispers filling the air like static. I found a quiet corner and began to read through every line, every clause. The document was dense with legal jargon, but one thing was clear: there was nothing in there about a property transfer. The auctioneer’s words echoed in my mind, “It’s all in the terms.” But what terms?
I decided to confront him once more. “There’s no mention of a deed in the agreement I signed,” I said firmly, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. He glanced at the papers, then back at me, his eyes narrowing. “Must have been an oversight,” he muttered, but his tone was far from apologetic.
“An oversight?” I repeated incredulously. “How does an entire property get overlooked?”
He offered no answer, just a nonchalant wave of his hand as if to dismiss the topic. Frustrated, I turned to leave, but not before noticing the woman in the blue blazer watching me intently. Her presence nagged at me. Who was she, and why was she so interested in my predicament?
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