Doors opened.
Four men stepped out.
Margaret grabbed my sleeve.
“There’s one more thing.”
I looked at her.
Her eyes were fixed on the envelope in Rachel’s hands.
“Your father didn’t die owning Mercer Farm.”
A fist slammed against the locked barn door.
And Rachel pulled one final sheet from the envelope.
A deed.
Dated six years ago.
Three days before my father died.
Transferring all 612 acres to a name I had never seen before.
