Chapter 2: The Truck at the Curb
I got there in eleven minutes.
Grandpa was standing at the end of their driveway, calm as ever, hands in his jacket pockets.
Beside him were two men I didn't recognize — and a flatbed truck parked at the curb.
"Grandpa, what is this?"
He smiled.
"Read the paperwork, sweetheart."
I didn't understand yet.
But then the front door opened.
The husband stepped out in his bathrobe, coffee in hand, and froze when he saw the truck.
"What's going on?" he said.
"Why are you back?"
Grandpa pulled out a folded document.
"That paper you signed yesterday?
It wasn't just confirming you refused to pay." He paused.
"It was a release of installation.
Everything I built — the cabinets, the shelves, the window bench — it's still my property until final payment is received.
That's been in my contract for thirty years."
The husband's face went white.
"You can't—"
"I can," Grandpa said quietly.
"And I will."
The wife appeared behind her husband, saw the two men already pulling equipment from the truck, and her coffee cup slipped in her hand.
"You planned this," she whispered.
Grandpa looked at her calmly.
"You told me I couldn't take it back." He tilted his head.
"You were wrong."
But just as the first man stepped toward the front door — a car pulled up fast behind the truck.
And the person who got out was someone none of us expected.
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What Frank did next — and who just arrived — changes everything.
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