Inside was the original trust agreement, fully intact, showing that my father’s estate had never transferred the voting rights to the development company.
The date on the amendment page was from last autumn, but the ink on the witness line was dark and clean, and the handwriting belonged to the private notary Ethan hired for our personal estate planning.
It was the realization that my father’s signature on the charter was fresh, not twenty years old.
Martha pulled the green county ledger from the bottom shelf, its heavy canvas cover scraping against the metal rack with a dry hiss. She did not set it on the counter immediately, holding it instead against her floral blouse as if she were weighing the wisdom of what she was about to do.
I adjusted my gold-rimmed reading glasses and kept my eyes on the leather-bound book in her hands.
