Any entry without written permission will be considered trespass.
Signed,
Robert Mercer.
Rachel smiled.
“There’s your answer.”
But I kept looking.
Because behind the Cedar Ridge folder was another envelope.
It was sealed.
My name was written across the front in Dad’s handwriting.
JACK—IF VARDEN EVER COMES BACK.
My hands stopped.
Rachel saw my face.
“What?”
I showed her.
The paper felt brittle.
Old.
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a single handwritten page.
Jack,
If you’re reading this, somebody from Cedar Ridge is claiming they have rights across the north field.
They don’t.
But that won’t stop them.
Varden came to me in October 2018 with a document carrying your signature.
I knew immediately it was false because you were deployed.
I told him if he ever used it, I’d go to the sheriff.
He claimed somebody inside the county had already “verified” it.
I asked who.
He wouldn’t tell me.
I made copies of everything and put the original evidence somewhere safe.
Do not trust the version recorded at the courthouse until you compare the book and page numbers.
There were only three people in the room when he showed me that document.
Varden.
Me.
And—
The sentence ended there.
Not with a period.
The bottom half of the page was missing.
Cut cleanly across.
I stared at the torn edge.
Rachel took the paper under the light.
“Jack.”
“What?”
“This wasn’t torn recently.”
“How can you tell?”
“Discoloration. It’s been like this for years.”
I read Dad’s words again.
Do not trust the version recorded at the courthouse.
“County records,” I said.
Rachel was already reaching for her phone.
The recorder’s office was closed.
So we searched the online index.
Mercer Farm.
My parcel number.
Dad’s name.
My name.
Easements.
Liens.
Right-of-way filings.
Nothing unusual appeared.
Then Rachel searched by book and page rather than my name.
She froze.
“What?”
“Someone cross-indexed an instrument incorrectly.”
“What instrument?”
She turned the laptop toward me.
An easement.
Recorded eight years earlier.
The same month as the forged access agreement.
But it wasn’t indexed under Mercer.
It was indexed under an LLC called North Valley Agricultural Services.
I had never heard of it.
Rachel clicked.
The scan took several seconds to load.
When it appeared, I felt every muscle in my back tighten.
Thirty-two acres.
North field.
