I started the engine, the old motor idling with a rough vibration that shook the steering wheel. We sat there in the shade of the bank building, the heat from the engine rising through the vents.
“He blocked it,” I said, staring straight ahead at the courthouse across the square.
Daniel reached down and adjusted his silver watch, rotating the bezel three times. “He had to. He knows what is in those files.”
“What do you think they did, Daniel?” I asked.
He turned his head to look at me, his eyes dark and steady. “The mortgage transfer occurred while I was still listed as MIA. My father was the only one left on the deed, and he was senile by then.”
“But they needed his signature to transfer the timber rights,” I said.
“They didn’t need his signature,” Daniel said. “They just needed a piece of paper that looked like he signed it.”
I looked up at the second-floor window of the bank. Richard was standing there, his silhouette dark against the glass, watching our car.
I shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.
