“We need to see the county books,” he said.
His voice was a low, steady rumble that made the small kitchen feel even smaller. He put the envelope on the counter right next to my grocery receipt, which totaled ninety-five dollars for things we had barely touched.
I didn’t answer him. I just smoothed the fabric of my cotton skirt, running my palms flat against my knees until the anxiety in my chest settled into a cold, hard knot.
The next morning at ten, the basement of the Oakhaven County Courthouse smelled of old paper and stale floor wax. A single fluorescent bulb hummed overhead, casting a flickering gray light over the rows of steel shelves.
Brenda, the county archivist, was an elderly woman who had gone to school with my older sister Clara. She walked with a heavy, rolling gait as she wheeled a cart containing three massive leather-bound ledgers to our table.
“These are the land registry books for seventy-one and seventy-two,” Brenda said, her voice echoing in the quiet basement. “They are fragile, Martha, so please be careful with the pages.”
“Thank you, Brenda,” I said. “We just need to check one tract of land.”
