Seasonal access.
The same language from Trish’s photocopy.
Except this version contained another page.
A page she hadn’t shown me.
Section Eleven.
Conversion Rights.
If recreational access occurred continuously for eight years without formal objection by the landowner, the grantee could convert the seasonal access into a permanent transportation easement upon payment of a predetermined consideration.
“How long ago was this filed?” I asked.
Rachel checked.
“Seven years, eleven months.”
The corn maze opening was scheduled less than three weeks before the eight-year date.
There it was.
That was why the event could not fail.
That was why Trish needed people physically walking my land.
That was why hundreds of ticket holders mattered.
Not because of cider.
Not because of charity.
Not because of autumn tourism.
They needed documented public use before the deadline.
If they could claim the agreement had existed uncontested for eight years, they planned to trigger the conversion clause.
The maze was the final piece.
And I had harvested it thirty-six hours before they needed it.
Rachel leaned back.
“That’s why they sold so many tickets.”
I stared at the screen.
“Witnesses.”
“Exactly.”
“One thousand eight hundred witnesses showing they used the land.”
“Plus vendors. Sponsors. Marketing. Event insurance.”
“Manufactured evidence.”
“Yes.”
She zoomed in.
“Jack.”
“What?”
“Look at the notary.”
The recorded easement carried my forged signature.
Beneath it was a Missouri notary seal.
The name looked familiar.
I couldn’t immediately place it.
Then I did.
I had seen it every year when paying property taxes.
Margaret Elaine Turner.
Current Cedar County Recorder of Deeds.
The woman responsible for maintaining the county’s land records.
The woman whose office supposedly recorded the document.
Rachel didn’t speak for several seconds.
“Your father said someone inside the county had verified it.”
I read the signature again.
Margaret Turner had notarized the supposed agreement eight years earlier.
She wasn’t recorder then.
She worked in the county planning department.
I stood.
“We go to Ben.”
“First we save copies.”
She downloaded everything.
Cloud.
USB.
Email.
Printed copies.
Then she checked the recording history.
Her expression changed.
“What now?”
“This document was modified.”
“Land records don’t get modified.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“When?”
She leaned closer.
“Three months ago.”
My mouth went dry.
“What changed?”
“I can’t tell from the public system.”
“Who modified it?”
“Recorder’s office.”
The farm suddenly felt very quiet.
