“Can you see the number that called?” I asked.
He hesitated. “We don’t always—”
“Please,” I said gently, firm enough to cut through. “This is interference with a court hearing. I was just stopped by airport police because of a false report filed by my father. I have an incident number.”
His expression shifted at the word police.
I pulled the slip from my phone case and slid it across the counter. He read it, then looked back at his screen with a different seriousness.
“I can see the caller ID,” he said. “It’s logged in the notes. Caller identified himself as Grant Holloway.”
There it was again—my father’s name typed neatly in a field that made it look official.
“Did he say why he canceled?” I asked.
The agent scrolled. “He said you’re not well and you’re not safe to travel alone. He asked us to stop you from getting on the plane.”
Same language. Different institution.
Threat at the airport. Not safe to travel. Unstable.
My father was building a version of me that could be waved around like a warning sign.
“I need you to reverse it,” I said. “And I need those notes printed.”
He nodded, fingers moving faster now. “Reversing depends on availability.”
“I’ll pay for a new ticket,” I said. “I just need to get there.”
He clicked, the screen refreshed.
Then he said, “There’s one seat still open.”
“Print it,” I said.
He printed the new boarding pass and slid it over, then printed the internal notes—one thin sheet with a timestamp, the caller ID, and my father’s name.
“Keep this,” he said quietly. “If he tries again, tell them to flag your profile for in-person verification only.”
“I will,” I said.
I didn’t linger. I walked fast toward the gate with my new boarding pass in one hand and my father’s paper trail in the other.
Boarding had already started. The scanner beeped when I handed my pass over.
Green.
I stepped onto the jet bridge and didn’t look back.
Once I was in my seat, I finally allowed myself one private second of shaking—just in my fingers. Then I forced them still. I opened my folder and checked that the packet I’d been carrying all morning was still there: the CAD printout and dispatch summary from the night Grandpa died.
The paper looked ordinary. That was the point. Ordinary paper is harder to argue with than emotional stories.
My phone buzzed.
A text from my mother: We know you’re trying to stir things up. Turn around. You’ll regret it.
I didn’t respond.
Another buzz.
A court notification I hadn’t subscribed to: Notice of hearing update.
My stomach tightened as I opened it.
The hearing time had been moved earlier by two hours.
Two hours.
They weren’t trying to keep me off the plane anymore. They were trying to make sure that even if I landed, I’d land too late.
The plane pushed back. As the engines rolled up, I stared at the notice and did the only thing left inside my control.
I called the probate clerk’s office.
It rang twice. A woman answered, brisk and tired. “Rio Arriba County Probate.”
“My name is Nina Holloway,” I said, voice steady. “I’m a beneficiary in today’s hearing. I just received a notice the hearing was moved earlier. I’m in transit due to interference, and I need to confirm whether the court will allow remote appearance or continue until I arrive.”
Keys tapped. A pause. Then her tone shifted slightly—less routine.
“Miss Holloway,” she said carefully, “the time change was requested this morning as an emergency accommodation.”
“By who?” I asked.
Another pause. “By counsel for Grant and Linda Holloway.”
My chest went cold.
“Has the court granted anything yet?” I asked.
The clerk hesitated. “Your parents’ attorney filed a motion to proceed without you based on a claim you were detained by airport police for threat-related behavior.”
I stared out the window as the runway blurred into motion.
They were writing me out in real time.
I bought the in-flight Wi-Fi before the seatbelt sign even turned off, then called the clerk back.
“I need an address for emergency exhibits,” I said. “Your motion contains a factual misrepresentation being used to deprive me of my right to appear. I have documentation that contradicts it.”
“We don’t accept filings by email,” she said automatically.
“I’m not asking you to file it,” I replied. “I’m asking where I can send supporting documents for the judge to review, because the motion is false.”
A beat. Then: “Are you represented?”
“Yes. Elliot Lane.”
Keys tapped again. “Mr. Lane is in the building.”
“Please note this,” I said, controlled. “I was stopped at airport security because my father filed a report. Airport police identified him via call log and audio. I was cleared. And my flight was canceled by my father calling the airline and claiming I’m not safe to travel.”
The clerk went quiet for a moment, then gave me an address for a secure exhibit inbox.