Story code: ST-001103
Part 2: The Green Tag
Toby’s slip of the tongue hung in the silence of the skeletal kitchen. I stared at him, my mind spinning as I tried to process the word he had just used. Toby gripped the canvas strap of his father’s tool bag so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“I mean inspector,” Toby mumbled quickly, his voice cracking. He didn’t look at me. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to the dusty subfloor. “Inspector. That’s what Dad said. He said the inspector is backlogged.”
Mark sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “The kid is tired, Sarah. He’s been helping Greg on commercial sites after school. Don’t start dissecting his grammar.”
But Toby didn’t wait for us to finish the conversation. He lunged for the back door handle, pushed it open, and practically ran down the wooden steps to his truck. The screen door slammed shut behind him, the metal spring rattling against the unfinished frame.
“See?” Mark said, turning on me. “Now you’ve scared him off. You’re turning this entire renovation into a hostile interrogation. Greg is my sister’s husband. He’s family. Why can’t you just trust him?”
I didn’t answer Mark. My chest felt tight, a cold knot of suspicion starting to form. Toby hadn’t just misspoken; the word “imposter” had slipped out with a strange, rehearsed familiarity.
I turned slowly and looked at the kitchen window. Taped to the glass, facing outward so it was visible from the driveway, was a green municipal building permit tag. It was the document Greg had proudly taped up on day one, claiming it was our shield against any nosey city code enforcement officers.
Mark checked his watch. “I’m going to the hardware store to get some temporary light bulbs. When I get back, I hope you’ve cooled down.” He grabbed his keys and walked out, the garage door rumbling shut a moment later.
Once the house was completely silent, I walked over to the window. I reached out and touched the corner of the green permit tag.
The paper felt wrong. Real municipal building permits in our county are printed on thick, weather-resistant cardstock to withstand rain and sun. This paper felt thin, slightly waxy, and limp.
I peered closer at the black lettering. The city seal in the upper left corner wasn’t crisp. The edges of the seal were slightly fuzzy, the black ink feathering into the green background. I leaned in until my nose was inches from the glass. The grid lines of the document were composed of tiny, microscopic dots.
It was a photocopy. A very good, colored photocopy, but a copy nonetheless.
My hands began to shake. I pulled out my phone and went to the county’s official building department website. I clicked on the public permit lookup tool.
In the search bar, I carefully typed in the permit number printed on the green tag: PMT-2023-88402. I hit search.
The screen spun for a second before a red message popped up: No active permits found for this address.
I stared at the screen. I tried searching by our street address instead. The system returned only a permit from six years ago when the previous owners had replaced the water heater. There was absolutely nothing registered for a kitchen remodel.
I cleared the address filter and typed the permit number back into the general search bar, searching the entire county database.
This time, a search result appeared.
Permit Number: PMT-2023-88402
Project Location: 1402 Industrial Parkway
Project Type: Commercial Warehouse Roof Repair
Status: Closed
I stared at the screen, the cold knot in my stomach hardening into absolute certainty. Greg hadn’t pulled a permit for our house. He had photocopied a closed permit from a commercial warehouse across town, changed the color, and taped it to our window.