My hands shook slightly as I verified the signatures on the original deed transfers.

I shoved the documents into my canvas backpack.

Next, I reached for the folder labeled *Tax Records – 1978-1985*.

As I pulled it loose, a small black-and-white photograph slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.

I knelt and picked it up.

The photo showed Eleanor as a young woman, standing on the steps of the county courthouse.

She was smiling, her arm linked with a tall man in a rumpled tweed suit who held a thick leather ledger.

On the back of the photograph, Eleanor’s handwriting was clear and precise.

*“Arthur Vance and I, the day the paperwork was finalized. The ridge is safe now. October 14, 1982.”*

I stared at the name.

Arthur Vance.

He had been the county clerk for nearly forty years before his retirement in the late nineties.

I remembered Eleanor mentioning him once, calling him the only honest man in the county administration.

If there was an easement or a protective covenant that didn’t show up in the current digital registry, Arthur would have been the one to record it.