Then I photographed the envelopes, the bank notice, and the document bearing my signature.
I sent copies to myself and forwarded them to a new email account I created while standing in the workshop.
Dad watched me.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure these documents don’t disappear.”
Jessica winced.
“I’m not accusing you of destroying anything,” I said.
“But from now on, every paper gets copied before anyone touches it.”
“I understand.”
The words were quiet, but they carried something different from her earlier pleas.
She wasn’t trying to persuade me anymore.
She looked frightened, but not only for herself.
I called the attorney whose name appeared on the letter.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Mr.
Harris?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Michael Harris.
I’m calling about a property in Mason County.
A farmhouse owned by Walter and Elaine Harris.”
There was a brief pause.
“I’m familiar with the file,” he said.
