I stood.
“We go to Ben.”
“First we save copies.”
She downloaded everything.
Cloud.
USB.
Email.
Printed copies.
Then she checked the recording history.
Her expression changed.
“What now?”
“This document was modified.”
“Land records don’t get modified.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“When?”
She leaned closer.
“Three months ago.”
My mouth went dry.
“What changed?”
“I can’t tell from the public system.”
“Who modified it?”
“Recorder’s office.”
The farm suddenly felt very quiet.
We both heard the vehicle at the same time.
Gravel crunching outside.
I looked through the machine-barn window.
County SUV.
White.
Seal on the door.
It stopped beside Rachel’s car.
A woman stepped out.
Gray hair.
Cream-colored jacket.
Margaret Turner.
The county recorder.
She stood under the security light and looked directly toward the office.
Then she raised both hands where we could see them.
One hand held a thick envelope.
Rachel whispered, “Don’t open that door yet.”
