We both heard the vehicle at the same time.
Gravel crunching outside.
I looked through the machine-barn window.
County SUV.
White.
Seal on the door.
It stopped beside Rachel’s car.
A woman stepped out.
Gray hair.
Cream-colored jacket.
Margaret Turner.
The county recorder.
She stood under the security light and looked directly toward the office.
Then she raised both hands where we could see them.
One hand held a thick envelope.
Rachel whispered, “Don’t open that door yet.”
Margaret walked closer.
She stopped outside.
“Jack?”
I didn’t answer.
“Jack, I know you’re in there.”
Rachel was already calling Ben.
Margaret pressed the envelope against the glass.
“I need to give you this before someone realizes I copied it.”
That changed things.
I opened the door two inches but kept the chain latched.
“What is it?”
Her face looked exhausted.
“Your father was right.”
“About what?”
“The courthouse record.”
Rachel stepped beside me.
“You notarized the easement.”
Margaret closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
My hand tightened against the door.
“You notarized my signature while I was in Afghanistan?”
“No.”
“Your seal says otherwise.”
“My seal was used.”
“By whom?”
She looked toward the dark road.
“I’ll explain everything, but we don’t have much time.”
“For what?”
“Someone accessed the recorder archive tonight.”
Rachel lowered her phone.
“What did they take?”
“The original recording packet.”
I felt cold despite the warm barn.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
Margaret shoved the envelope through the gap beneath the chain.
“It’s all in there.”
I picked it up.
Heavy.
Maybe fifty pages.
Rachel opened the top.
Survey maps.
Emails.
Copies of signatures.
A title-company letter.
Then one document made her stop breathing.
“What?” I asked.
She handed it to me.
It wasn’t an easement.
It was a purchase agreement.
Mercer Farm.
All 612 acres.
Buyer:
North Valley Agricultural Services LLC.
Seller:
Jack Mercer.
Purchase price:
$4,200,000.
Closing date:
October 1.
Seventeen days away.
My forged signature appeared at the bottom.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was the line beneath it.
TITLE COMMITMENT APPROVED.
The sale wasn’t a proposal.
Someone had already opened escrow.
Someone had already ordered title insurance.
Someone had already scheduled closing on my farm.
Rachel flipped to the final attachment.
Her face went completely still.
“What?”
She turned the page toward me.
There was a wire authorization.
