Chapter 32 · The Auction Block

The flatline was still screaming out of my phone when the auctioneer’s gavel hit the block.

One long, agonizing tone. Mercy Cove had a backup generator. I’d paid for the diesel out of my own pocket in March, in cash, just so the hospice could stay powered. Somebody had cut the line.

“Lot twelve,” the auctioneer droned. “Berth Four. Sail loft included. Thirty-year lease, as-is. Bids in writing or from the floor.”

I stood up in the third row. My knees felt like water, but my grip on the phone was white-knuckled.

The old cannery smelled like rotted bait and desperation. A hundred and sixty heads turned toward me, their faces blank. June sat in the front row, cream coat perfectly pressed, swirling her paddle like it was a martini glass.

“Objection,” I said. My voice cracked. Too high. “The leaseholder of record can’t be auctioned. There’s a filed contest on that slip.”

The auctioneer didn't even look up. He’d been bought, and clearly, he’d been bought cheap. “Objections go through the trustee.”

“The trustee is sitting right here.”

June stood. Three clicks of her heels against the concrete—sharp, rhythmic, precise. She had a folder tucked under her arm.