“Then go to the courthouse,” Grandma Ruth said, her voice barely a breath. “But leave me out of it. Please.”
The County Courthouse on Main Street smelled of floor wax and old coffee. We walked past the metal detectors and down the long corridor to the probate office, where a low wooden counter separated the public from rows of green metal filing cabinets.
A clerk with dark hair and a gold chain around her neck looked up from a stack of blue folders. “Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for guardianship records from late nineteen ninety-eight,” I said, clearing my throat. “The estate of Elena Vance.”
She walked over to a computer terminal, her fingers tapping the keys in a slow, rhythmic pattern. She frowned, squinting at the monitor before sliding her glasses down her nose.
“Vance,” she said, reading the screen. “There’s an entry for the guardianship of two minors, Eric and Noah. But the files are marked restricted.”
