An elderly woman pressed, "We demand a timeline. When shall the money be ours?"

Raegan expressed regret, "I can't give you a date, yet I assure you, I'll hasten the process."

Privately, she knew the flat's sale wouldn't be swift, and a shortfall loomed large. Her job's salary would have to suffice for the incremental repayments.

The troublemaker couldn't resist saying, “See? She's fooling you.

Don't be fooled by a pretty face. She'll vanish once she hits the city."

The calm was shattered once again by the rising clamor.

Raegan, however, realized this troublemaker hadn't yet presented Brent's promissory note.

So she confronted him, “Has Brent indeed borrowed from you?"

He asserted confidently, "Certainly."

“How much?"

Under her scrutiny, the troublemaker wavered.

“Eight hundred thousand."

Raegan's skepticism was palpable. The cemetery's whisperings had painted this troublemaker as lazy. He was unlikely to amass such wealth. It smacked of opportunistic deceit.

"And the promissory note?" Raegan pressed.

Caught without one, the troublemaker bluffed, "No note. I claim eight hundred thousand, so it is."

Raegan retorted, "Do we just trust your words?"

Raegan faced the police officer, her voice steady, "Someone flung red paint over my grandmother's tombstone. I've captured the mess in photographs and can bring forth witnesses. I'm filing a police report this instant. Moreover, I doubt Brent ever borrowed money from this man. He's clearly seizing the chance to bully me for cash."

Caught off guard, the troublemaker was left reeling.

The notion of him possessing eight hundred thousand seemed ludicrous.

He was merely scouring for a chance at easy money.