Both were laughing.

Both wore denim jackets.

Between them was a hand-painted sign:

MILLER & HART GARAGE — SOMEDAY.

Mason leaned closer.

“Who is he?”

Ruth followed his gaze.

“Samuel’s best friend. Tommy Hart.”

Mason went very still.

Eli noticed.

“Mase?”

“Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

Mason had known a Thomas Hart.

Not well.

But well enough.

Before he could ask more, Noah called from the dining room.

“You need to see this.”

Documents covered Ruth’s table.

Noah held the alleged deed under the light.

“The property description is wrong.”

Ruth frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“This says the southern boundary begins at the old county culvert.”

“Yes.”

“The culvert was moved.”

“When?”

“1998.”

Ruth stared.

“This description came from an old document.”

Mason took the deed.

“How old?”

Noah pointed.

“The legal description is copied word for word from something drafted before 1998.”

Mason looked toward Ruth.

“Do you keep old property papers?”

“My husband kept everything.”

“Where?”

Ruth pointed upstairs.

“In his office.”

They found three filing cabinets.

Henry Miller had indeed kept everything.

Receipts from 1979.

Warranty manuals from appliances no longer manufactured.

Tax statements.

Insurance documents.

Handwritten notes about rainfall.

Danny held up a receipt.

“He kept the invoice for a toaster from 1986.”

Ruth smiled faintly.

“He didn’t trust warranties.”

Mason searched.

At 1:34, he found the original deed from 1975.

The property description matched the forged document almost exactly.

Blackridge had copied from it.

But that wasn’t the disturbing part.

Mason studied the bottom of the forged deed.

Then the original.

The same witness name appeared on both.

Edwin C. Lowell.

Mason looked at Ruth.

“Who was Edwin Lowell?”

“The lawyer who handled the land purchase.”

“Alive?”

Ruth gave him a strange look.

“No.”

“When did he die?”

“1991.”

Everyone fell silent.

Mason placed the forged deed beside the original.

The Blackridge deed, allegedly signed six months earlier, listed a man dead for thirty-five years as a witness.

Danny whistled.

“That seems bad.”

“Very bad,” Mason said.

Ruth sank into Henry’s chair.

“So they forged it.”

“Yes.”

Relief flooded her face.

Then Mason added, “But that’s not what bothers me.”

Ruth’s relief vanished.

“What bothers you?”

“They had access to a document that doesn’t appear in current county records.”

Noah understood first.

“Somebody got into her files.”

Mason nodded.

“Or they got a copy from somewhere else.”

Ruth’s face drained.

A sound came from downstairs.

Three hard knocks.

Everyone froze.

Then another.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Mason checked his watch.

1:58.

“They’re early.”

Ruth stood.

Her knees almost buckled.

Mason caught her elbow.

She whispered, “I’m afraid.”

He looked directly at her.

“That’s allowed.”

Another knock thundered through the house.

“What matters is what you do while you’re afraid.”

Ruth looked at him.

Mason offered his arm.

“Ready, Mom?”

Her eyes filled instantly.

The word had escaped him as part of the act.

But something about it struck the room like a bell.

Ruth took his arm.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I’m ready, son.”

There were five people on the porch.

Two uniformed private security officers.

A woman carrying a leather briefcase.

A nervous young man with a camera.

And a man in a navy suit who looked irritated before Ruth even opened the door.

He was perhaps forty-five, silver at the temples, expensive watch, expensive shoes.