“You signed an agricultural-use agreement with Cedar Ridge’s development company eight years ago.”
“No.”
“It transferred with the association.”
“No.”
“You may not remember every document signed during the original subdivision negotiations.”
“I remember that one.”
She tilted her head.
“You remember not signing it?”
“I remember being in Afghanistan on the date printed at the bottom.”
Silence.
The wind moved through the corn.
Dry leaves rattled against one another.
Trish’s expression changed.
Barely.
But I caught it.
The agreement was dated October 14, eight years earlier.
I had been serving with an Army engineering unit attached to a logistics brigade at Bagram during that entire month.
There were military travel records.
Payroll records.
Passport records.
Photographs.
Emails.
Hundreds of people who could prove I was six thousand miles from Missouri.
Trish removed her sunglasses.
“Then perhaps your representative signed.”
“My representative’s name would be on the document.”
